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o 







COME-ON 

CHARLEY 

BY 

THOMAS ADDISON 


“ When two join in the same adventure 
one perceives before the other how they 
ought to act.” — Homer. 



G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



Conte-on Charley] 




Copyright, 1914, 19 is, by 
THE RIDGWAY COMPANY 

Copyright, 1915, by 
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 





©Cl. A 3 939 9 2 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. 

Mr. Carter Gets a Starter 

. 

r*' 

w 

W 


PAGE 

5 

n. 

Tapping the Sugar Barrel 


[*: 

:•/ 

[•} 

# 

18 

hi. 

The Girl in Black . 


>i 


f« 

.. 

29 

IV. 

A Deal in Radium 


. 




36 

V. 

The Run in the Taxi . 

... 


>• 

• 


SO 

VI. 

The Stolen Ruby . 


>■ 



. 

59 

VII. 

A Tilt with the Law . 



# 



69 

VIII. 

Double Crossed 


v 

:• 

r #3 


78 

IX. 

Lord Lynham Comes to Town 

. 

*•* 



93 

X. 

“The Lady of the Loggia” 


. 

r«: 


. 

100 

XI. 

A Rude Intruder . 






11 7 

XII. 

The Red Sea Fleas . 




. 

. 

126 

XIII. 

What Was in the Basket? 


>1 

# 


. 

140 

XIV. 

A Bit of Legerdemain . 


w 

>■ 


. 

151 

XV. 

The Way to Wall Street 


v 


:•? 

. 

164 

XVI. 

Tickling the Tiger . 


w 

:• 

> 

. 

175 

XVII. 

The Pool in Paper Collars 


. 

r*i 

> 

. 

184 

XVIII. 

Come-on Makes a Christmas 


• 

r*" 

.*• 

. 

196 

XIX. 

The Bet at the Goats’ Club 


!•! 

• 

.. 

. 

209 

XX. 

How the Trick Was Turned 


. 



. 

223 

XXI. 

Where the Money Went . 


> 

> 

. 

. 

229 

XXII. 

A Meeting in the Rain . 


*• 

'• 


. 

234 

XXIII. 

Big Business .... 


>4 


> 

. 

243 

XXIV. 

A Case of Girl 



f#' 

• 

. 

253 


S 


4 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXV. The Factory on the Marsh 262 

XXVI. Merciful Skeeters Meets a Man .... 271 

XXVII. The Day After 283 

XXVIII. Patching a Bursted Bubble 290 

XXIX. The Biter Bitten 297 

XXX. Preparing for a Killing 305 

XXXI. On the “Kelpie” 314 

XXXII. Mr. Crisp Calls .......... 324 

XXXIII. Playing the Ponies . . . M . . 330 

XXXIV. Charley Gets His Million ... . u . 338 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


CHAPTER I 

MR. CARTER GETS A STARTER 

If you stood on the top of the tallest building in New 
York and could throw a biscuit twenty and some-odd 
miles to a certain point between due north by west and 
due west by north it would land in a quiet and conserva- 
tive little city which, for the purposes of this story, 
shall be called Hamilton. 

And if the worthy Hamiltonians could know how and 
whence the biscuit came it would not astonish them half 
as much as the news that was brought one day not long 
ago by a stranger who dropped in on them from New 
York, though not via the aerial route. He came pro- 
saically by the eleven-o’clock express. 

This person drove up to the Bennett House in a depot 
hack. He was middle-aged and portly, with a jolly face 
and humorous eye, and the effluence of prosperity hung 
about him like an aura. Life may not have been alto- 
gether a joke to this gentleman, but evidently it was not 
a sheer calamity; there was a lot of fun to be extracted 
from it if you knew how. His stay in Hamilton was to 
be short, it appeared, for he was bothered with none of 
the impedimenta of travel; he simply stepped out of the 
hack, poked a coin at the driver, and strode into the 
hotel. 

Business was slack with the Bennett — a chronic ail- 

5 


6 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


ment of long standing — and Mr. Teeters, the clerk, was 
not behind the desk. He was lolling in a chair in the 
lobby near the door, discussing things theatrical with a 
flabby-looking fat man who seemed consumed with ennui 
or some other disagreeable feeling. This was Mr. Ellery 
Maginnis, sole proprietor of the Soulful Singing Blondes, 
and just now feverishly anxious to share the distinction 
with some one else — some one, say, of opulence and 
optimism, and an unspoiled faith in his brother man. 

He — Mr. Maginnis — and the Blondes had come on 
by early train from Buxton, where they had played' 
the night before. They were glad to get away from a 
town that had appreciated them only to the extent of 
thirty-four dollars and fifty cents, gross. Here in Ham- 
ilton they hoped for better recognition; but it was all 
a gamble, as Mr. Maginnis well knew, and beneath a 
carefully manufactured calm he concealed a troubled 
heart. The time ahead was doubtful, salaries were be- 
hind, and printing bills unpaid — he was skating on some 
very thin financial ice, and could hear it cracking all 
around him. 

As the portly stranger came in from the street Mr. 
Maginnis cast an idle eye at him, little guessing that 
he was the bearer of glad tidings, and Mr. Teeters 
glanced at him with lazy indifference that he did not 
dream was shortly to be changed to strenuous surprise. 
The stranger paused and took a survey of the lobby. 
One of the Blondes — Mrs. Maginnis herself — was busy 
with her pen at a long and much-bespattered writing 
table in the corner. With this exception, and of course 
not counting Mr. Teeters and Mr. Maginnis, the place 
was apparently deserted, though the click of billiard 
balls coming through a door at the rear announced the 
near-by presence of other humans. 


'MR. CARTER GETS A STARTER 


7 


“Who is in charge here?” inquired the newcomer 
crisply. 

“I’m sort of looking after things,” languidly answered 
Mr. Teeters. “I’m the clerk.” He caressed a mourn- 
fully drooping auburn mustache and waited. 

“My name is Drew,” said the other. “I wish to find 
a Mr. Charles Arthur Carter. Can you tell me where 
he is likely to be at this hour?” 

The clerk evinced immediate concern. He uncrossed 
his long legs and lifted himself from the base of his 
spinal column to an upright position in his chair. 

“Come-On Charley? You say you’re looking for 
him?” he queried, frowning. 

Mr. Drew smiled. 

“Why — yes,” he responded. “If Mr. Carter answers 
to that name I am certainly looking for him.” 

Mr. Teeters pondered this a moment. Mr. Carter, 
as it happened, was playing pool in the room in the 
rear. His employer, Mack the shoe-dealer, was happily 
engaged in burying his mother-in-law that morning, and 
had closed his store until noon. 

“Charley is a friend of mine,” stated Mr. Teeters at 
length. “Anything wrong ?” 

“No.” 

“No trouble, hey?” 

A curious light twinkled in Mr. Drew’s eyes. 

“Why, as to that, Mr. ” 

“Teeters — Percival Teeters.” 

“Mr. Percival Teeters, as to that, there might be a 
difference of opinion. But I don’t think you would call 
it trouble — I am quite sure you would not. Perhaps, 
as Mr. Carter is a friend of yours, you won’t mind giv- 
ing me some information about his family?” 

“Hasn’t got any,” said Mr. Teeters shortly. “All 


8 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


dead. Look here, you ain’t trying to hang anything on 
Come-On, are you?” 

“Most assuredly not,” disclaimed the stranger. 

“Because,” explained Mr. Teeters, “Come-On is a 
good boy. He’s the best boxer in town, and strong as 
a goat. But he’s Easy James all right. He’s held the 
bag till he’s got warts on his hooks as big as waffles. 
What’s doing?” 

Mr. Maginnis, who had followed the conversation 
with but feeble interest, here interjected a humorous re- 
mark. 

“Perhaps,” he suggested, “the gent has come to tell 
this Come-On Charley chap he’s had a fortune left him.” 

“Hey?” exclaimed Mr. Teeters, startled. Then he 
gave out a crackling noise, which was accepted as laugh- 
ter by those who knew him. 

Mr. Drew contemplated the two with secret pleasure, 
and the spirit of mischief stirred in him. 

“The gentleman has guessed my mission,” he said com- 
posedly. “Where can I find — er — Mr. Come-On Car- 
ter?” 

The theatrical manager whistled to himself, and Mr. 
Teeters’s laughter strangled in his throat. He rose 
jerkily to his feet, like an ill-made automaton, and his 
mustache wiggled in a way it had when Mr. Teeters 
was greatly moved. 

“How much is it?” he squeaked. 

“How much?” Mr. Drew hesitated a bare second. 
“Two million dollars.” 

Mr. Teeters reeled, and Mr. Maginnis stiffened per- 
ceptibly where he sat. When the shock had passed, Mr. 
Teeters gave vent to an ejaculation peculiarly his own: 

“Merry Moses!” 

He choked and goggled dumbly at the bearer of this 


MR . CARTER GETS A STARTER 


9 


stupefying news. Mr. Maginnis got up and crossed 
softly to the opposite corner where his wife, better 
known to the world as Miss Pearl La France, was star- 
ing at him. The two at once became immersed in low- 
voiced confidences. 

Mr. Drew touched the clerk on the shoulder to arouse 
him from his trance. 

“My good fellow,” he remonstrated mildly, “my time 
is limited. If you will kindly tell me where I can 
find ” 

“Hold on!” exploded Mr. Teeters. “I got him right 
here. Wait!” He hurried to the door of the billiard 
room and plunged through it. Presently he came back 
with a young man of about twenty-three or four. 
“Here’s your millionaire,” he proclaimed unctuously. 
“Best friend I got.” This last with a canny thought to 
the future. 

Come-On Charley solemnly and silently regarded his 
visitor. Mr. Drew returned the gaze with interest. He 
saw a compactly built, muscular young fellow of me- 
dium height, and with a broad and not ill-favored 
countenance. The eyes were hazel and serious-looking, 
with long, dark lashes. The nose was straight, and the 
mouth wide and full-lipped. It was a face expressive 
of profound good nature, and the other man felt a twinge 
of compunction for his misstatement to Mr. Teeters. 
He had multiplied Charley’s legacy two hundredfold 
to give himself a moment’s pleasantry, and now he would 
have to dash hopes risen high. It could be done with a 
word, however, and no bones broken; so he went up to 
the boy and held out his hand. 

“Mr. Carter, I am Samuel Drew, an attorney,” he 
introduced himself. “I presume your friend has told 
you of your good fortune?” 


10 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Yes,” said Charley simply. “Kinder sudden, ain’t it?” 

Mr. Drew recovered his hand with a grimace, and 
privily spread the fingers apart to assure himself of 
their entirety. 

“Just one question, Mr. Carter,” he stipulated. 
“Have you any idea who would be apt to leave you 
money?” 

“You can search me,” invited Mr. Carter calmly. 

“Didn’t you have an uncle who went away ” 

“Sure!” said Charley. “Uncle Bill Halstead, mother’s 
brother. Went broke and jumped the town. I slipped 
him a silver dollar when he left — all I had. Gee ! That 
was twelve years ago!” 

Mr. Drew gave a little grunt of satisfaction. 

“It’s all right,” he declared. “Mr. Halstead’s will is 
written around that silver dollar. He never forgot it. 
He went to China and did something in opium, and 
when he died, two months since, he left you all he had.” 

“Good old sport!” commented Charley staidly. And 
with this brief epitaph he laid his uncle’s memory to 
rest. 

Right here was where Mr. Drew should have said 
the word that would have straightened matters ; but his 
curiosity got the better of him. He wanted to see how 
this stolid youth would play the role of millionaire. He 
turned to the hotel clerk and said: 

“If you will show us to a room I shall be obliged. 
Mr. Carter and I have business to transact.” 

Charley glanced at a clock on the wall. 

“Got to get back to work,” he remarked. “Only had 
the morning off. Funeral.” 

The lawyer scanned him gravely, though certain un- 
dulations in the region of his lower vest buttons might 
have been noticed by an observant eye. It was the gen- 


MR. CARTER GETS A STARTER 


11 


tleman’s way of making merry strictly within his cor- 
poral limits. 

“I imagine you needn’t worry about that,” he said. 
“And Mr. Teeters, you might send in two pints of cham- 
pagne and a few of your best cigars.” 

Mr. Teeters looked keenly at the speaker and then 
at Charley. Then he went thoughtfully over to the 
desk and pounded on a bell. A frowsy boy appeared 
from somewhere. 

“Here, Tim,” ordered the clerk, “show this gentle- 
man to Parlor B, and do a dog trot. Just a moment, 
Come-On.” 

He fastened himself to Charley’s arm, and Mr. Drew, 
smiling oddly, suffered Tim to lead him from the scene. 
Mr. Maginnis came over from his corner on the instant. 
He brought Mrs. Maginnis with him and introduced her 
to Charley with impressive ceremony. The lady’s color- 
ing did not permit of heightening with the pleasure she 
desired to exhibit, but she simpered, and ogled the newly 
gilded youth in a quite bewildering way. 

“Such splendid news you’ve had!” she murmured. 

“Kinder sudden, ain’t it?” returned Charley dispas- 
sionately. 

“Come-On, I’m going to ’phone Buck Tompkins,” 
broke in Mr. Teeters. “You wait here.” He disap- 
peared behind the desk. Mr. Tompkins was the reporter 
for the Hamilton Evening Star. He was a young gen- 
tleman in whom Mr. Teeters reposed considerable con- 
fidence. 

Mr. Maginnis seized on the momentary absence of 
the clerk to indulge in a little effusive personal demon- 
stration. He took both of Charley’s hands in his own 
and worked them up and down as if he would pump 


12 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


some of the unearned increment out of him — as, in truth, 
he was fully minded to do. 

“My dear sir,” he cried, “I want you to meet the 
ladies of my company. Charmin’ girls ! Bright as but- 
tons an’ lots of ginger. Come from the best fam’lies 
in the land. Refined, you know. An’ sing ! Say, they’re 
canaries !” 

Little warm points showed in Charley’s eyes. He was 
fond of music. Mr. Maginnis, whose morals were per- 
haps a trifle cloudy, but whose perceptions were per- 
fectly clear, hastened to press his advantage. 

‘‘This afternoon at four in thirty-two — my wife’s 
room,” he whispered. “There’s a piano in it. Just us 
an’ the girls — no more. We’ll keep it quiet, eh?” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Not for publication.” 

He winked frankly at Mrs. Maginnis, who playfully 
struck at him and told him to behave himself when her 
husband was around. With this sally, and as Mr. Tee- 
ters was coming from behind the desk, the devoted 
couple took themselves off up the public stairs. 

“Buck ain’t in, but I left word for him,” said Mr. 
Teeters when he rejoined his friend. “Look here, Come- 
On, suppose this gink we got in Parlor B is stringing 
you?” He frowned darkly at the thought. 

“By George !” exclaimed Charley. 

“We ain’t seen the color of that two million,” insisted 
Mr. Teeters gloomily. “Not a flash of it. And here 
he’s ordering wine!” 

“Good old sport,” suggested Charley. 

Mr. Teeters wiggled his mustache, and his frown grew 
blacker. 

“Huh !” he sneered. “Maybe he is and maybe he ain’t. 
Maybe he’s going to sting you for the bill.” 

“By George!” exclaimed Charley again, though with 


MR. CARTER GETS A STARTER 


.13 


a startled note. He was impartially ready to give ear 
to ill as well as good report. 

Tim the bell boy reappearing, Mr. Teeters placed him 
in charge of the office and, turning to Charley, grabbed 
him by the arm. 

“Come along !” he yapped. “We’ll find out a thing or 
two.” 

He marched down a corridor to Parlor B, and with- 
out the preliminary of a knock burst into the room. 
Mr. Drew was seated by a table at the window with 
several papers before him. As they came in he swept 
up the papers and restored them to his pocket — all ex- 
cept one, a check, which he left in plain sight. 

“Hello, what’s up?” he inquired. Then, reading Mr. 
Teeters’s mobile countenance as he would a display ad 
in a penny paper, he pointed an accusing finger at him. 
“Don’t believe the news, eh, Mr. Merciful Skeeters?” 

A slow grin spread like a ripple over Charley’s fea- 
tures. The mere sight of the lawyer had renewed his 
confidence in him. 

“Merciful Skeeters!” he repeated. “Good. Bully.” 

The hotel clerk paid no attention to this, but ad- 
dressed himself to Mr. Drew. 

“My name is Teeters — not Skeeters,” he remonstrated, 
though mildly ; for his suspicions also were melting away 
in the presence of this assured person. 

“I beg your pardon,” craved the lawyer. “Mr. Tee- 
ters, of course. Will you be good enough, both of you, 
to step over this way? Take chairs, please.” 

When they were seated Mr. Drew reached down into 
his pocket and brought forth a ten-dollar gold piece. He 
laid this on the table before Mr. Teeters. 

“While I think of it,” he said, “will you kindly attend 
to the wine check when you go out? Give the change 


14 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


to charity — the Home for the Willfully Blind, say.” His 
vest buttons joggled a little. 

Mr. Teeters breathed hard and removed the coin from 
sight. Mr. Drew appeared to be taking counsel with 
himself. Presently he spoke: 

“Two million dollars is an awful lot of money. If it 
were all in silver dollars it would nearly fill this room. 
If you could count sixty of them to the minute — which 
you couldn’t do and keep it up — it would require over 
sixty-nine working-days, of eight hours each, in which 
to finish the job. Some cash that, eh, Mr. Skee — 
Teeters ?” 

Mr. Teeters wiggled his mustache, but made no reply. 
He was overwhelmed by the picture Mr. Drew had called 
up to him. Charley sat looking on as if he were a 
stranger who had no vital interest in the proceedings. 

“That,” continued Mr. Drew musingly, “is a force 
behind a man that translates him into a mighty power. 
The common knowledge that he is seized of so much 
money makes him irresistible. He doesn’t have to show 
it to get what he wants ; he doesn’t really have to use it ; 
the mere repute for great wealth unlocks all doors before 
him. 

“And to the man himself — if he’s the right sort — the 
sense of possession is dynamic; it gives him an impetus 
and assurance that carry him to success. What do you 
say, Mr. Carter? Am I speaking by the card?” 

“Sure,” said Charley seriously. 

“Good!” approved the lawyer. “Now I will ask your 
incredulous friend to inspect this cashier’s check. It is 
for ten thousand dollars, payable to yourself. It — it’s 
just a starter for you, so to speak — er — pocket money, 
at it were.” 


MR. CARTER GETS A STARTER 


15 


“Pocket money — ten thousand bucks ? Merry Moses !” 
twittered Mr. Teeters weakly. 

Charley waved his hand nonchalantly at the check. 

“There you are, Percy. All shipshape. No strings.” 

Mr. Drew turned his gaze on the shoe clerk, 
who probably had never in his life owned a hundred 
dollars at any one time. This sudden possession of a 
goodly sum, and the prospect of great wealth to follow, 
appeared to affect him no more than if a string of cockle 
shells had been handed to him. It was all in the day’s 
happenings, to be accepted as you would the rising of 
the sun or the falling of the rain. The lawyer wondered 
what short of dynamite would upset an equilibrium so 
magnificent, and it resolved him definitely on the droll 
experiment he was meditating. 

“I don’t suppose,” he observed casually, “it is neces- 
sary to read Mr. Halstead’s will. The fact that he left 
you all his property is sufficient, eh, Mr. Carter?” 

“Sure,” acquiesced Mr. Carter promptly. “Bore to 
read it.” 

“There is one thing, though, I must acquaint you 
with,” went on the attorney, “and this is strictly between 
us three. You are not to be placed in possession of the 
two million right away. The fact is — er — you are ex- 
pected to turn a trick or two with that ten thousand first. 
In other words, you are to make it grow a bit — add a 
little to it to see if you can be entrusted with the — er 
principal. The two million are back of you, remember — 

the dynamic sense of possession; but — er Well, you 

get me, don’t you, Mr. Carter?” 

Charley looked straight into his questioner’s eyes, so- 
berly and steadily. 

“I get you,” he answered, and looked away. 


16 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Mr. Teeters had pulled himself together and now rose 
to his feet 

“Come-On,” he said earnestly, “they’ll horn you out 
of your bundle sure if you run around loose with it. 
You need a wise bo to shoo the con men off. What’s the 
matter with giving me the job — private secretary?” 

“Sure,” said Charley. 

“Ha! What salary?” queried Mr. Teeters greedily. 

“Name it,” Charley bade him. 

Mr. Teeters plunged wildly and named twice what he 
expected. 

“How about fifty a week ?” 

“You’re on,” said Mr. Carter. “Get busy.” 

Mr. Teeters straightened up. His narrow chest ex- 
panded, and his nostrils widened to the smell of money. 
It seemed to him that he was moving in an auriferous 
haze through which golden eagles took their flight. 

“I’ll get busy all right,” he announced. “I’m the 
watchdog of the treasury, and I’ll bite the pants off any 
guy who tries to handle me.” 

With this delivery of his sentiments Mr. Teeters 
stalked to the door. But Mr. Drew, who had listened 
first with amusement, then with amazement, stopped him. 

“Don’t go yet,” he requested, and turned to Charley. 
“Do you mean,” he asked, “that you have actually en- 
gaged this person to be your secretary ?” 

“Sure,” said Charley, grinning tranquilly. “Merciful 
Skeeters. Wise. Keeps his fingers crossed. Save me 
lots of trouble.” 

Mr. Drew stared at the millionaire he had created. 

“Heaven help me !” he gasped, and could say no more. 

Mr. Teeters crackled derisively. He turned to go; 
then, with a sudden inspiration, wheeled. 


MR. CARTER GETS A STARTER 


17 


“Say, Come-On ! How about a band of music to make 
a noise ?” 

“Good scheme/' said Charley. 

“And booze all around for the boys, hey? We got 
to do something in memory of your Uncle Bill.” 

“Sure thing/’ assented Charley. “Good old sport. 
Buy the bar. Light everybody up.” 

Mr. Teeters challenged Mr. Drew with his eyes, but 
the lawyer had abandoned himself to the course of 
events. His vest was surging now to the peril of all its 
buttons. 

“A happy thought,” he agreed. “Better than storied 
marble or imperishable bronze. Go to it, Skeeters, and 
illuminate the populace. And don’t forget our wine.” 

He lay back in his chair as Mr. Teeters went out, and 
laughed himself to tears. And in this state Mr. Buck 
Tompkins, of the Evening Star, hurrying to get the story 
that had broken, found him a moment later, with Come- 
On Charley imperturbably waiting for the fit to pass. 


CHAPTER II 


TAPPING THE SUGAR BARREL 

It was Mr. Tompkins who put Hamilton on the map 
that day, and turned on the spotlight. It was not his 
story in the Star that did it, flaming though it was with 
hurtling headlines — it was Mr. Tompkins’s dispatch to 
the New York Evening Scream. That was his prettiest 
piece of work to date, and the Scream played it up on 
the front page until it shrieked attention; and then the 
Scream ordered its funny man and a staff photographer 
to the scene, and the other papers did the same. 

It was also Mr. Tompkins who, toward four o’clock 
in the afternoon, long after Mr. Drew had laughed him- 
self back to New York, and when Mr. Teeters was ex- 
hibiting marked signs of being “lighted up” — it was Mr. 
Tompkins who suddenly discovered that Mr. Carter was 
missing. 

They were in Parlor B. This apartment, with an ad- 
joining bedroom and bath, had been retained by the sa- 
gacious Mr. Teeters for his millionaire employer. The 
rooms were crowded. Beer and whisky flowed in the 
Bennett’s bar as free as grace at a camp meeting, but 
in these chosen precincts wine was served. The thought- 
ful secretary had caused the bathtub to be filled with 
ice, and bottles were planted in it as plentifully as pre- 
election pledges — and soon to be as empty. 

Mr. Teeters had just opened a fresh quart, and with 
18 


TAPPING THE SUGAR BARREL 


19 


several kindred spirits was lifting up his voice in song, 
when Mr. Tompkins unfeelingly broke in on it. 

“Teet!” he yelped, as he came up. 

“ ‘Way down upon the Su-wanee river’,” responded 
Mr. Teeters melodiously. 

“Shut up!” enjoined the reporter. “I want to see 
you.” 

“Have a look,” invited Mr. Teeters passionately. “I'm 
the guy who invented spending money.” 

Mr. Tompkins reached forth, and seizing the secre- 
tary by the ear plucked him rudely from the bosom 
of his friends. 

“Come over here,” he growled, and led him to an un- 
occupied corner. Then he snapped out: “You’re a fine 
watchdog of the treasury! Where is it?” 

Mr. Teeters rubbed his ear and wiggled his mustache. 

“Where is what?” he asked plaintively. 

“The treasury, you lollop — Come-On Charley. He’s 
gone ! Somebody’s pinched him.” 

“Pinched?” Mr. Teeters stared wildly about him. 
“Who done it?” 

“If I knew do you think I’d be standing here talking 
to a candidate for the booby house?” retorted Mr. Tomp- 
kins. “A Scream man is due on the four o’clock to see 
the show, and here the headliner’s bumped off the bill! 
It puts me in Dutch.” 

Mr. Teeters recovered his sobriety as one might a mis- 
laid glove. It was wonderful. 

“Ha !” he snorted. “It ain’t going to put me in Dutch. 
I’m going to find Come-On. I got to. He’s got a check- 
book and a fountain pen with him — they’ll shake him 
down till he won’t have a feather left in his tick.” 

So saying, Mr. Teeters proceeded energetically to claw 


20 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


a passage for himself through the crowd to the door, 
and Mr. Tompkins comfortably followed in his wake. 

Meanwhile Charley sat in state in Room Thirty-two. 
He had managed to reach that haven unobserved, and 
was welcomed by Mr. and Mrs. Maginnis as they would 
have a bright and shining angel — as indeed they pro- 
posed speedily to make him. Wine which he himself 
had amiably caused to be sent up to the company stood 
at his elbow, and the place where he sat might be likened 
to an island entirely surrounded by Blondes. There 
were eight of them, charming girls — Mr. Maginnis be- 
ing the impeccable authority for it — and refined, as any 
one could see; also powdered and rouged in the way 
peculiar to the best families in the land, from which — 
again relying on Mr. Maginnis — they had come. 

“Can you beat ’em?” he demanded vehemently of his 
guest as the ladies finished a little syncopated chanson 
to Mrs. Maginnis’s pianoforte accompaniment. “They 
oughter be on Broadway this minute, makin’ some of 
those would-bes sound like a rusty saw. What?” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “All stars.” 

He smiled genially around the circle, but his gaze 
lingered on Miss Pansy Plover, a slim young thing next 
him, who shot him a languorous glance from under her 
beaded eyelashes. 

“Pansy,” called Mrs. Maginnis, who was not there to 
lose any tricks, “sing ‘When the Lilies Lose their 
Leaves’.” 

“Ah!” ejaculated Mr. Maginnis, rolling up his eyes 
till the whites showed alarmingly. “The way Pansy gets 
that song over would melt a stone bridge. I seen her 
make a house cry like a sick kid for its mommer.” 

Mrs. Maginnis played an introductory bar or two, 
and Pansy stood up and sang. Her companions helped 


TAPPING THE SUGAR BARREL 


21 


her out with a chorus, and Mr. Maginnis added a dra- 
matic touch with a well placed sob here and there. He 
was crying freely when the number ended. 

“I can’t help it,” he apologized, wiping his tears away 
with a dingy pocket handkerchief. “I’m too tender- 
hearted — that’s the trouble. An’ when I think I ain’t 
got the coin to push that girl the way she oughter be, 
why ” 

He got up abruptly and betook himself to replenish- 
ing the glasses to hide his emotion. Charley did not 
attempt to conceal his. 

“Shame!” he gulped. “Bully voice. All bully,” he 
added generously. 

Mr. Maginnis suspended operations to survey with 
pride the group of erubescent heads. 

“Didn’t I say they was canaries ?” he earnestly begged 
to be informed. “What? Didn’t I, Charley?” 

Pending Mr. Carter’s answer the canaries, thinking of 
their salaries, looked at him as if he were a lump of 
sugar they would very much like to peck. 

“Sure,” agreed Charley cordially. “Best ever. Let’s 
drink to them — warm birds and cold bottles!” He 
laughed boyishly and winked at Pansy. “Say! By 
George, how’s that?” 

Everybody laughed at the king’s good jest, and Pansy, 
sipping daintily from her glass, passed it to him, saying 
archly — * 

“See if it don’t taste better than yours?” 

“Sure it does,” said Charley, sipping in turn. “It isn’t 
wine any more — it’s honey !” 

“Ellery, what do you know about that?” chirruped. 
Mrs. Maginnis, coming over from the piano and sitting 
down by her husband. 

“Don’t ask me,” returned Mr. Maginnis. “If I had 


22 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


a thousand of his money — just a thou. — I know what 
I’d do.” 

“What?” inquired Charley seriously. 

The moment had come, but Mr. Maginnis was not the 
one to rush it foolishly. He lighted a cigar with studied 
deliberation and said: 

“What? I’d put Pansy an’ this show on Broadway 
inside of ten days. That’s what!” 

“Ellery Maginnis!” cried his wife in shocked pro- 
test. “What are you wantin’ of a thousand dollars 
with the show makin’ good like it is?” 

Mr. Maginnis laughed sardonically. “Ain’t that like 
a woman?” he demanded of Mr. Carter. “S’pose this 
show is clearin’ five hundred a week right along — it’s 
takin’ every cent of it to pay for a home we bought out 
at Long Neck last Fall. A twenty-thousand-dollar es- 
tate, sir! It keeps me so short I can’t see over a pint 
cup without standin’ on a stool. An’ she wonders why 
I ain’t got a thousand in my jeans? Huh!” 

He drew moodily at his cigar and lapsed into silence. 
The Blondes centered their gaze on Charley, Miss 
Pansy’s being especially languishing. Then, with a lit- 
tle impulsive movement, she leaned over and whispered 
to him — 

“Gee, boy, can’t you see me knocking down the ten- 
pins in the Big White Alley?” 

Charley winked at her encouragingly, and swinging 
around to the manager asked, “Would a thousand be 
enough ?” 

Mr. Maginnis caught his breath with a little sobbing 
sound, and Mrs. Maginnis swayed slightly in her chair. 
It was too easy to be real. 

“Well,” said the former, when he could breathe again, 
“we’d get quicker action with two thousand, of course. 


TAPPING THE SUGAR BARREL 


2 $ 

I’d put on an act with these girls at Bannerstein’s that 
would beat anything on the bill four ways from the 
jack. We’d pull down three thousand a week as easy 
as picking fleas off a dog.” 

Mr. Carter seemed to hesitate — he was thinking of 
Mr. Teeters — and Mr. Maginnis, to clinch the matter, 
gave a command to his wife : 

“Here, fetch me pen an’ paper, Pearl. I want to 
put this thing down in black an’ white. Charley’s to get 
for his two thousand all we make the first two weeks 
at Bannerstein’s an’ I will get all we make the next two. 
I couldn’t do fairer by my own brother. Pansy, sing 
that new song of yours, ‘Happy Hearts Make Happy 
Homes,’ while I’m writin’. I want to know what Charley 
thinks of it.” 

Mr. Maginnis wrote and Pansy sang. The finish was 
almost a dead heat. 

“Talk about your caroling canaries! Ain’t she the 
little golden throat?” burst out the manager. Then, 
without waiting for Mr. Carter’s opinion, he called: 
“Come here, Pansy, girl, an’ you, Violet an’ Ruby. Put 
your names here where I’ve made the marks. We want 
this paper right — signed, sealed an’ witnessed.” 

While this important business was being transacted 
Charley produced his checkbook and fountain pen. The 
song had put Mr. Teeters out of his mind. He wrote 
a check to Mr. Maginnis’s order, and filled in the stub. 
The documents were exchanged with due ceremony ; and 
then Mr. Maginnis, glancing at his watch, gave a start, 
but said jovially: 

“Well, well, how time flies ! I got to get to the theater. 
What d’ye say to one more song for a wind-up, girls? 
Sumpin’ we all can sing. What?” 

“Bully!” acclaimed Charley, and he tentatively cleared 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


24, 


his throat. “Do you know The Sugar Barrel’? New. 
Just out.” 

Mr. Maginnis clutched at a chair for support. 

“You can butcher me !” he muttered. But Miss Pansy 
Plover laughed her merriest and caroled: 

“The bottom of the barrel isn’t far from the top, 
But there’s sugar in it all the way between; 

You can work from either end and eat until you pop, 
But you can’t lick the sugar barrel clean.” 

“Come on, let’s have it, Pearl,” begged Ruby. 

They gathered about Mrs. Maginnis at the piano, 
which was at the farther side of the room from the door. 
Charley found himself between Ruby and Pansy, and 
with an arm around each without just knowing how it 
happened. As they sang the door opened softly, little 
by little, until, peering in from the hall, were disclosed 
the amazed countenances of Messrs. Teeters and Tomp- 
kins, backed by other faces, wide a-grin, that were 
strange to Hamilton. Some sixth sense prompted Mr. 
Maginnis to look around, and at that precise moment 
an exclamation popped from Mr. Teeters’s mouth as if it 
were a cork. 

“Gollamighty !” was what he said. 

Mrs. Maginnis’s fingers crashed discordantly on the 
keys, and Charley whirled on his heel, carrying Miss 
Pansy and Miss Ruby with him like the blades of a 
vivified propeller. The evening sun streamed through 
the windows on the group, and a battery of cameras 
clicked from the doorway. Mr. Maginnis swore and 
the Blondes shrieked and wriggled out of Charley’s em- 
brace, but too late — the scene was immortalized. 

Mr. Teeters spoke first. 


TAPPING THE SUGAR BARREL 


25 


“We been looking for you everywhere, Come-On,” he 
stated. “What you doing up here?” 

He stepped into the room gingerly, as if he were afraid 
a mine might be sprung on him, or a concealed trap 
door drop him down into the cellar. Mr. Buck Tomp- 
kins and the strangers followed. There was a little 
gray-haired man among these latter who was smiling 
queerly to himself. 

“What you been doing, Come-On ?” repeated Mr. 
Teeters. 

“Singing,” grinned Charley. “Singing with the carol- 
ing canaries. Want to hear us?” 

Mrs. Maginnis prevented a reply. She brushed the 
Blondes aside and confronted the private secretary. 

“An’ what are we owin’ the honor of this call to — in 
my own private apartments?” she demanded haughtily. 

“These are gentlemen from the New York papers to 
see Mr. Carter,” interposed Mr. Tompkins placatingly. 
“They want to interview him.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Teeters, his china-blue eyes flashing 
defiance at the lady. “If you are through using him 
we’d like to borrow him for a while.” 

“Ellery !” shrilled Mrs. Maginnis in appeal to her nat- 
ural protector. 

“Aw, put the stopper on it, Pearl!” her husband 
charged her. He was of no mind to give offense to any- 
one just then. “Mr. Carter’s fond of music an’ we been 
givin’ him some,” he explained ingratiatingly to the com- 
pany. “We was just breakin’ up when you come in.” 

He made a movement which he hoped would be taken 
for dismissal, but Mr. Teeters, who had been looking 
about him suspiciously, gave a cry and pounced upon 
an object lying on the table. It was Charley’s checkbook. 


26 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Buck,” he screeched, “they been milking him ! Look 
at this! The ink ain’t dry! Two thousand bones!” 

Mr. Teeters glared at the manager of the Soulful 
Singing Blondes, and wiggled his mustache ferociously; 
but the gentlemen of the press showed pleasure in this 
development, for here were plot and action. They licked 
their lips and looked at Charley. Mr. Maginnis inter- 
ested them only as a minor character in the play. 

Charley walked up to his secretary and held out his 
hand for the checkbook. 

“Guess I’ll take care of that, Skeeters,” he said pleas- 
antly. 

“Come-On,” pleaded Mr. Teeters, “lemme keep it for 
you. You ain’t fit to be trusted with it ; honest, you ain’t. 
I leave it to Buck. I told him somebody’d shake you 
down if I wasn’t handcuffed to you — and they done it !” 

“Hand it over,” invited Charley. 

“It’s that cheap theatrical skate there that done the 
trick,” went on the secretary, ignoring his employer’s 
request. “Shook a whole bagful of bones outer your 
box the first crack he got at you.” 

Charley’s other hand suddenly shot out. Mr. Teeters’s 
arms were pinioned to his sides, and he was lifted 
straight up from the floor and jounced down again on 
his feet like a pile driver. 

“You’re fired,” announced Mr. Carter calmly; and 
taking his property from the half-stunned man’s nerve- 
less hand he restored it to his pocket. 

A clicking camera — the Scream's — had caught the 
climax of the action, and the reporter for that sheet 
queried nervily — 

“What did you fall for — I mean, what did you give 
up the two thousand for, Mr. Carter?” 

“Business deal,” said Charley. “Going to put these 


TAPPING THE SUGAR BARREL 


27 

ladies on Broadway. I get all they make the first two 
weeks. Written contract.” 

“Played for a sucker!” groaned Mr. Teeters from 
the chair into which he had collapsed. The Blondes 
sniffed at him, and Mr. Maginnis, seeing himself sup- 
ported by his victim, spoke up caustically. 

“I guess that’ll be about all from these people, Charley. 
What?” 

The little gray-haired man had been whispering with 
Mr. Tompkins, and now stepped forward. 

“I’ve been looking for a novelty,” he said briskly, “and 
came out here with these boys on the chance of getting 
it. Mr. Carter, if I give these ladies an immediate 
New York engagement would you — er — be willing to ap- 
pear with them, say for five minutes at each perform- 
ance? Just to introduce them, you know?” 

Charley glanced a question at the astonished Mr. 
Maginnis, who nodded mechanically. 

“Sure,” he answered. 

“Would you be willing to have this singing-act head- 
lined with your name, say ” the little man hesitated 

— “say as ‘Come-On Charley’s Caroling Canaries’?” 

Charley looked at the newspapermen. They grinned 
at him encouragingly, and he grinned back. 

“Surest thing you know,” he said. “Tickled to death.” 

“I suppose,” smiled the other, “money is not an object 

with you, Mr. Carter ” a moan from Mr. Teeters 

punctuated the observation — “but if you will open on 
Monday with me for a two-weeks’ engagement I can 
make the act what would ordinarily be considered an at- 
tractive offer.” 

“How much?” came explosively from Mr. Maginnis. 

“Five thousand a week; and I will hand Mr. Carter 
right off my check for the first week.” 


28 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Say,” cried Mr. Maginnis hoarsely, “who are you, 
anyway ?” 

“Otto Bannerstein,” replied the little man. 

“Oh, gee whiz !” exclaimed Miss Pansy Plover ecstati- 
cally. 

Mr. Maginnis staggered back among his Blondes, and 
was lost in the radiance of their countenances. Charley, 
as unruffled as a Stylite on his tower, went over to Mr. 
Teeters and inquired: 

“How about it, Percy? I clean up eight thousand 
dollars. Who’s the sucker?” 

“I am,” conceded Mr. Teeters meekly. 

“Shake!” said Charley, stretching forth a forgiving 
hand. 

Mr. Teeters took it, a little tremulously, and asked — 

“Do I hold my job?” 

“Sure,” said Charley. 


CHAPTER III 


THE GIRL IN BLACK 

The traffic squad smiled, and some of them saluted, 
as the big yellow touring-car rolled up Broadway. Lean- 
ing back in the tonneau was a compactly built, muscular 
young man in a sober gray business suit and olive felt 
hat. On the seat with him lounged an individual in 
gorgeous raiment. A gardenia bloomed on his fawn- 
colored cutaway coat. A glowworm scarf of knitted 
mauve silk embraced a choking collar, and was knotted 
over an incandescent shirt of fine linen strewn with 
violets like a May mead. His hands were gloved in 
lavender and rested negligently on the ivory knob of a 
wanghee cane, and beneath an English bowler a pair 
of china-blue eyes above a drooping auburn mustache 
received with languid relish the startled glances of the 
world. 

The car was traffic-stalled at Thirty-eighth Street. A 
big, black-haired man standing on the corner talking 
with a much smaller man suddenly grasped his com- 
panion’s arm and whispered earnestly: 

“Al, there’s Come-On Charley now — in the lemon 
hearse ! The gink this way with the green lid.” 

The little man covertly sized up Mr. Charles Arthur 
Carter. His mouth, which had a queer left-sided down- 
ward slant, fairly drooled. 

“Two millions !” he muttered. “Why, shoot me, but he 

29 


so 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


looks as if you could step up and take it out of his 
hand! Who’s the bird of paradise with him, Nick?” 

The big man showed a fine set of teeth. 

“Anybody’d know you’re from the country, Albert. 
Didn’t they have a thing in the Chicago papers about 
this brace of ducks? The old town pump ain’t better 
known than they are on the Little Lane. That’s Mr. 
Percival Teeters, Come-On’s private secretary. They 
call him here on Broadway Merciful Skeeters. Some- 
body wished the name on him, and it stuck.” 

“And they let ’em out like this without a keeper? 
You must be conning me, Nick, on the radium frame-up. 
All we’ve got to do is to ask them for the money and 
go and spend it.” 

The blockade broke and the car moved on. So did 
the two gentlemen crooks. 

The big man was right. If there was a bonchiide New 
Yorker who had not heard of Come-On Charley he was 
dead or dying. Mr. Carter’s picture and his secretary’s 
were stock cuts in Park Row ; their lives were embalmed 
in print with daily incidents added ; and the Great White 
Way had taken them to its scintillating bosom and nursed 
them to the full flower of their proclivities. 

As we see him now, Mr. Carter was returning in a 
livery automobile from a fruitless trip downtown to 
Mr. Drew’s office. It was just a friendly call he had 
wished to make, but the lawyer was not in — or, at least, 
he was not visible; he had reasons which induced him 
to a modest retirement from his client’s view for the 
present. So Charley left his card, as a gentleman should, 
and came away. 

The yellow car was blocked again a few squares 
farther on, though but for a moment. Short as the 
pause was, it sufficed for a little black-and-white sign 


THE GIRL IN BLACK 


31 


in a lower-story window on the cross-street to catch 
Mr. Percival Teeters’s roving eye. It was merely a 
quack-doctor’s decoy for those of simple faith, and 
the body of the text was too small to be read from where 
Mr. Teeters sat; but a featured word, standing out boldly 
from the others, arrested his attention — 

RADIUM 

Mr. Teeters’s mustache wiggled. He nudged Mr. Car- 
ter, and pointed at the sign with his cane. “Radium !” he 
ejaculated. “Radium! See it, Come-On?” 

“Sure,” said Charley placidly. 

“That thing’s got my goat,” declared Mr. Teeters ir- 
ritably. 

“Forget it,” Charley counseled him. 

“They won’t let me,” complained the secretary. 
“Every day we get a card shoved at us through the 
mail with just that word on it — not a thing more, not 
even a fly-speck. I’m getting bughouse on it. Radium 1” 

“Drop it,” said Charley. “Think about the weather.” 

The big machine was purring on its way once more, 
and presently it rounded off from Broadway and swung 
up to the curb at the Hotel Rirebien as softly as a cat 
that has trailed a bird to a bush. The doorman came 
running out to meet them, and his smile was as genuine 
as his name was not. They called him Pierre in the 
hotel to match the menu, and at home his wife called 
him Mike as a match for Maggie. 

“A grand day, Mr. Carter, sor. Not too war-rum,” 
he observed in his finest French. 

“Bully,” returned Charley. He jumped out and asked, 
“Is Joe Link here?” 

“He is, sor.” Pierre’s face was aglow. “An’ he tells 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


me, Mr. Carter, ye’re the hardest hitting amachure he 
iver put de mitts on wid.” 

“Good old sport, Joe,” said Charley, and went inside; 
but Mr. Teeters lingered. He addressed the doorman 
in a confidential tone. 

“Say, Pear, what’s radium?” 

“What’s what?” Pierre scanned his questioner sus- 
piciously. He loved Charley, but he could not go to 
that extent with his secretary. 

“R-a-d-i-u-m, radium,” repeated Mr. Teeters. “What 
in hog’s name is it, Pear?” 

Pierre, perceiving he was confronted with ignorance 
denser than his own, gave the only Gallic gesture in his 
repertory: he shrugged his shoulders. 

“Oh, ray-day-un!” he mouthed. “That? It’s that 
new liniment they be advertising — good fer man or 
baste.” 

He slapped-to the door of the tonneau, and turned 
to speak with the chauffeur. Mr. Teeters walked into 
the hotel, frowning and far from satisfied. 

Charley was talking with Joe Link, the middle-weight 
ex-champion of the United States. Joe came from 
Pierre’s home county, and his French was just as good, 
with perhaps a bit more of polish. Mr. Teeters nodded 
to him, and went on to the desk to get his mail. It was 
a handsome handful, for the beggars had not yet ceased 
petitioning Mr. Carter for plums from his pie. 

The secretary shuffled through the bunch of letters 
with an air of expectation. When he came to a large 
square envelope typed with Charley’s name he stepped 
quickly over to that gentleman and poked the letter 
under his nose. From the ladies’ lounge in the corridor, 
just beyond the elevator shaft, a pair of bright blue 
eyes was taking note of them. 


THE GIRL IN BLACK 


SS 

‘‘Radium! Betcher cigars/’ barked Mr. Teeters. 

“Open it,” commanded Charley. 

Mr. Teeters did so. Squarely in the center of a gilt- 
edged correspondence card was printed the fateful word. 
Mr. Teeters gave forth a crackling sound; it was in- 
tended to express laughter. 

“I can guess the little pea every time,” he exulted. 

Charley looked bored. 

“Let’s go up, Joe,” he suggested. “Want to learn 
that double hook.” 

He started for the elevator, but Mr. Teeters flung 
out a detaining hand. He was sniffing the card as a 
dog would a strange bone. 

“It’s from a woman!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s 
scented.” 

“By George !” exclaimed Charley, to whom all woman- 
kind was a pleasurable mystery. “Never put me wise 
before, Skeeters.” 

“The others,” said Mr. Teeters darkly, “didn’t have 
any more scent than a doorknob. What’s radium, Joe — 
a new kind of smell?” 

Mr. Link pondered his reply with middle-weight de- 
liberation. 

“It’s something for your liver — like epsom salts,” he 
answered with conviction. 

“Get some, Percy. I haven’t got a liver,” grinned 
Charley. 

He marched toward the elevator with the ex-cham- 
pion. Mr. Teeters remained behind, still fingering the 
card and mumbling the mystic word. The bright eyes, 
watching Mr. Carter from the ladies’ lounge grew 
brighter as he approached, and the young woman to 
whom they belonged arose and sauntered down the 
corridor. She was gowned all in black — a brilliantly 


34 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


beautiful butterfly imprisoned in the weeds of widow- 
hood. 

This superb young creature met Charley a step or 
two beyond the elevator door, and paused directly in 
his path. She had missed her glove. She wheeled 
slowly, searching the floor for it. It had fallen almost 
at her feet, and Charley sprang to retrieve it. As 
he restored it to her she looked into his eyes and mur- 
mured her thanks in a voice so soft, yet so thrilling, 
that Charley felt cold chills run up and down his spine. 
He stood staring after her. 

“Some dame, that,” commented Mr. Link unemotion- 
ally, and strode into the waiting cage. “Coming, boss?” 
Charley pulled himself together and followed the 
fighting-man. 

“Guess I’m kind of groggy,” he stammered. “She hit 
me, Joe — with her eyes!” 

Mr. Teeters had seen the incident of the glove. As 
the woman came toward him on her way to the street 
he inflated his narrow chest and stiffened his long legs. 
Years since he had convinced himself that his appear- 
ance was fatally prepossessing, and this belief was in no 
wise diminished now that he was arrayed as the lilies 
of the field. 

The lady in black lowered her eyes in delightful con- 
fusion before Mr. Teeters’s fixed regard, yet she did not 
altogether lose her presence of mind ; for as she passed 
him her lips framed a familiar vocable and let it fall upon 
his ear. 

“Radium,” she breathed. 

The secretary stepped on his own foot, so greatly 
startled was he. And then, floating back to him, came 
a whiff of perfume that startled him again. He goggled 


THE GIRL IN BLACK 


35 


after the receding loveliness, and clapped to his nose 
the card he still held with thumb and finger. 

“Merry Moses!” he cackled. “I guessed it right! It 
ain’t a liniment or liver cure — it’s a smell ! I want some 
of that.” 

He jammed the bunch of letters recklessly into the 
pockets of the fawn-hued cutaway, and sprinted for the 
door. 


CHAPTER IV 


A DEAL IN RADIUM 

Mr. Carter and Mr. Link were drawn up to a table in 
the former’s private parlor in the Hotel Rirebien. Be- 
fore Fortune tapped him on the shoulder Mr. Carter had 
achieved a measure of renown. He was known in his 
native city as the best boxer the place had produced. 
And wealth had not changed his devotion to this amiable 
pursuit; rather did he follow it with greater zest under 
the expensive tutelage of the celebrated Joseph Link. 

Now, pink and glowing from the needle spray in Mr. 
Carter’s bath, the two simple-minded gentlemen were 
refreshing themselves with cold beef and buttered ale 
after a strenuous hour with the gloves. It was Mr. 
Link’s theory that one’s stomach is not intended as a 
catch-all for the scourings of a French chef’s demented 
fancy, but as a cherished receptable for real food; to 
which, coming from so eminent an authority, Mr. Carter 
subscribed whole-heartedly. 

On this peaceful scene Mr. Teeters exploded himself, 
so to speak, like a balloon surcharged with gas. 

“Gollamighty, Come-On,” he burst out, “get up and 
change your props! Quick!” 

“Where’s the fire?” inquired Charley staidly. 

“Get up!” entreated Mr. Teeters. “I got a date for 
you a dead man would kick his box off to keep! Get 
36 


A BEAL IN RADIUM 


37 


up and fly your colors — the glad rags and happy hat. A 
lady wants to see you !” 

“By George!” said Charley, and looked at Mr. Link. 

The middle-weight, who held the narrow-chested sec- 
retary in but low esteem, swallowed a huge mouthful 
of beef and grunted something uncomplimentary to that 
person’s mental status. Mr. Teeters caught it. 

“Nuts, am I?” he flung back indignantly. “And you’re 
the guy that drinks radium for your liver! I’m nutty; 
oh, yes, I guess so!” 

He crackled with derisive laughter, and leaving Mr. 
Link’s ignorance exposed to view, without even a con- 
jecture wherewith to clothe it, he turned to Charley and 
said : 

“I been picking peaches, Come-On, while you been 
chewing cow. It’s that skirt you let get by you at the 
elevator.” 

“By George !” exclaimed Charley once again. This 
time he laid his knife and fork aside. “What about 
her?” he asked, little warm points beginning to show 
in his eyes. 

“What about her?” echoed Mr. Teeters. “Why, I 
got her in a cage, and the key’s hanging ’round my neck 
— that’s all! Slow, ain’t I? Slow as a rabbit running 
from a dog!” 

Mr. Link strangled on his ale. 

“Rabbit!” he sputtered. “You’re a fish — the quick- 
est thing in suckers that ever flapped a fin ! They don’t 
need hooks to catch the likes o’ you, me laddy buck — 
just hairpins.” 

Mr. Teeters scornfully snapped his fingers by way of 
reply to the pugilist, and addressed himself to his chief. 

“Shake a leg, Come-On. You got to make your change 


38 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


and beat it. I promised I’d be back in half an hour; 
and I got an earful to give you on the way.” 

He winked secretly at Charley, but Charley gave the 
signal no acknowledgment. 

“Sit down. Tell it now,” he ordered. 

“But we only got half ” 

“Sit down !” iterated Mr. Carter. 

“Don’t worry, Merciful, me boy,” spoke up Mr. Link 
ironically. “She’ll be waiting for you till there’s skating 
in the subway. The fishing’s fine through the ice.” 

He chuckled disagreeably. Mr. Teeters sat down. 
Twice bidding was Charley’s limit. After that, as Mr. 
Teeters knew, something sudden was apt to happen. 

“Go on,” Charley charged him. “Tell it.” 

Mr. Teeters abandoned himself to the inevitable with 
the ease of habit. He was a fatalist by nature, and re- 
fused to kick against the pricks. 

“Her name is Inez de Castro,” he began. “Some han- 
dle, hey? Husband was a Dago. She come sailing by 
me when you shook her and tipped me the word to get 
aboard. 

“ 'Radium,’ she gurgles, and streaks it for the pave. 
I was with her in two jumps. 

“ 'What’s this radium racket all about ?’ I asks her. 
'Is the stuff good to eat, drink or smell?’ 

“Say, Come-On, she gimme a look that made my fin- 
gernails stop growing. Merry Moses ! She’s got lamps 
that’d turn bullets into cream puffs!” 

Charley nodded gravely. 

“Sure,” he said. “I know.” 

Mr. Link grunted and resorted to his pewter. 

“'We can’t talk here,’ she says,” went on Mr. Teeters, 
now in full enjoyment of his narrative. '"Somebody 


A DEAL IN RADIUM 


39 


might hear.’ And so I says, ‘How about a quiet corner 
in a gobble house — fizz and fixin’s ?’ 

‘“No/ she tells me; somebody might see. I’m a 
widow, and a man who was my husband’s jinx is scout- 
ing for my scalp/ 

“She didn’t say it just like that,” explained Mr. 
Teeters casually, “but she’s in a peck of trouble sure as 
shooting.” 

“Take it from me,” put in Mr. Link oracularly, “she 
won’t be long. She’s picked a nice soft place to dump 
it.” 

“Go on, Percy,” said Mr. Carter tersely. The secre- 
tary complied. 

“She gimme her card, and begged me to bring you 
round to see her, Come-On. She’s living with her 
brother in a flat on Forty-fifth Street. He’s laid up with 
a bum peg and can’t trot. I told her I’d have you there 
in half ” 

“Back up!” enjoined Mr. Link. “Where does that 
radium come in?” 

“That’s what she wants to put us wise to,” replied 
Mr. Teeters evasively. “She’s keeping it for Come-On.” 

“You bet!” snorted the ex-champion. “The lad with 
the gravy.” He lifted himself out of his chair and 
walked around to Mr. Teeters’s side of the table. “You 
tell me what this radium gag is, or by Saint Patrick 
I’ll twist your head ofif and send it to the dame to let 
her know the rest of you ain’t coming!” 

Mr. Teeters paled. He wiggled his mustache and 
glanced appealingly at Charley; but the latter did not 
heed it. Mr. Link in action was a joy to him. 

“Better tell him, Skeeters,” he advised. “Don’t want 
to bury you so soon.” 

“She — she says it’s a metal,” stuttered the secretary. 


40 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“A pinch of it is worth a ton of gold. That’s all I 
know. She wouldn’t tell me any more then.” 

“Gee!” was Charley’s comment. 

Mr. Link sat down and laughed aloud. 

“Saints preserve us !” he rapped out when he had re- 
covered his breath. “It takes little old New York to 
hand you out a line like that. It’s so raw it’s bleeding.” 

Mr. Teeters peeped at his watch. It was after one. 

“How about it, Come-On?” he queried. “She’s a 
queenerino. Just ordinary queens ain’t fit to hook her 
up the back. And she’s counting on you. Do we go?” 

Whether Mr. Teeters was artfully artless or artlessly 
artful would be hard to say, but he touched the respon- 
sive chord. 

“Sure, we go,” said Charley. 

He got up and looked for his hat. Mr. Link regarded 
him in stunned astonishment. 

“Going to hop right on the fly-paper?” he demanded. 

“Can’t disappoint a lady,” answered Charley. 

He found his hat and set it on his head. Mr. Teeters 
bounded to his feet with a gesture of protest. 

“Come-On! You ain’t going to change?” 

“No,” said Charley stolidly. 

Mr. Teeters, whose soul could not harbor enmity, 
turned to Mr. Link as comrade would to comrade. 

“What d’ye think of that?” he questioned passion- 
ately. “He’s got a thousand dollars’ worth of scenery 
I made him buy, and he won’t wear it ! He won’t wear 
it,” he repeated, squinting down his lanky length — '“and 
I can’t ! Gollamighty ! I wish they’d cut me on the bias 
instead of with the grain.” 

Mr. Link checked the observation on his lips. There 
was a glint in his patron’s eye that warned him to silence. 
The secretary saw it also. 


A deal in radium 


411 


“Get a move on/’ bade Charley, and Mr. Teeters 
quick-stepped it to the door. 

“Holy snakes!” grumbled the prize-fighter to him- 
self as he followed them out. “They’d walk into a trap 
if the name was over it in fireworks.” 

He was still following them — at a discreet remove, 
however — when they had left the Hotel Rirebien and 
were headed toward Forty-fifth Street. 

The winsome widow herself opened the door to Mr. 
Teeters’s knock. Back of her, resting heavily on his 
cane, stood a big, black-haired man. 

“Come in, gentlemen,” boomed this person in a heavy 
bass. “I’m Mrs. de Castro’s brother — Jack Shuff.” 

Charley and Mr. Teeters walked in. It was not a large 
apartment, and it was rather shabby in its appointments ; 
but they took small note of this. 

“Glad to know you,” said Charley, though with eyes 
single for the widow. 

“Thanks,” boomed the big man. “No need to ask 
your name, sir. Everybody in New York knows Mr. 
Charley Carter by sight; and Mr. Merci — er — Percival 
Teeters as well. I’m proud to see you in our little 
home.” 

He held out his hand, but it was only Mr. Teeters’s 
that he shook. Charley’s was otherwise engaged; some- 
thing like a little warm, fluttering bird was nestling in 
it and giving him a strange sensation in the nape of 
his neck. 

“So kind of you to come !” a soft voice murmured in 
his ear. 

“Wish I’d never been away,” said Charley genially. 
At which the beauteous bereaved one dropped her violet 
eyes. 

“I’ve been scolding Inez,” affirmed Mr. Shuff loudly, 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


42 

“for the way this meeting has been brought about. It’s 
irregular. It’s not ” 

“Any way’s a good way to meet a lady/’ cut in Char- 
ley stoutly. 

“Eh?” The big man stared at him. “By Jove, that’s 
neat! I quit. Let’s sit down and get acquainted.” 

He set the example, and lowered himself into a chair 
with a grimace. 

“Broken toe,” he explained. “Kicked a man down the 


“Jack!” His sister raised a protesting finger. 

“Oh, to be sure,” said Jack apologetically. “I an- 
ticipate.” 

He showed a set of strong white teeth in a grin at 
Mr. Teeters, who experienced a vague uneasiness and 
thought of his fawn-colored pants. Mr. Shuff looked 
big enough to kick a mule down the steps, if he were 
so minded. 

“Does it hurt much?” asked Mr. Teeters. “Your toe, 
I mean,” he supplemented hastily. 

“It’s mending,” the gentleman assured him. “And 

on a pinch I could use the other. If that scoundrel 

Inez, what’s the use of beating around the bush? Tell 
them about it.” 

Inez, who was sitting on the sofa with Charley, hesi- 
tated, with a pretty frown wrinkling her white fore- 
head. Then, with a gesture which might have been 
Spanish — or Danish, so far as Messrs. Carter and Tee- 
ters could have classed it — she broke forth into speech: 

“Oh, if I were not convinced of your goodness, and 
that you are honorable, kindly gentlemen, I could never 
bring myself to appeal to you ! It was desperation that 
impelled me to send you those cards — that drove me to 
your hotel this morning on the chance of meeting you. 


A DEAL IN RADIUM 


42 


My brother could not go — as you see — and besides I 
wanted to judge for myself what you were like.” 

“Sorry we’re not strong on looks,” said Charley so- 
berly. “Hearts all right, though.” 

“Did I not say so, Jack?” The lady interrogated her 
brother exultantly. 

“Yes, you did,” admitted Jack. He showed his teeth 
and added, “She said — there’s no harm in telling it — • 
that if she had the pick of all New York she would 
choose you as the easiest — er — person to approach with 
a delicate and difficult proposal.” 

“The most honest and reliable,” stated the widow with 
emphasis and a rapier-like glance at her brother. “You 
see, Mr. Carter — Mr. Teeters — a man whom my hus- 
band trusted has proved a traitor, and is trying to rob 

me of what little I have. I ” she faltered pitifully 

—•“I am in great trouble!” 

Her emotions overcame her, and she buried her face 
in her hands. Charley turned pale. This exhibition of 
distress affected him. 

“Shame!” he gulped. “I say, Mrs. ” 

“Call her Inez,” Mr. Shuff adjured him. “And me 
Jack. We are all friends. It was that cursed scoun- 
drel I broke my toe on, Charley — a week ago.” 

“Inez !” said Charley, his voice quivering on the word. 
“Inez! Oh, I say, you know — don’t! Can’t stand to 
see you like this.” 

He reached out diffidently and touched her arm. Mr. 
Teeters looked on and wiggled his mustache. Mr. Shuff 
displayed signs of impatience. 

“Come, come, Inez!” he exclaimed. “Control your- 
self.” 

Inez let her hands fall, and her eyes sought Charley’s. 
To his relief there was no trace of tears in them; rather 




COME-ON CHARLEY 


they were brilliant with repressed feeling. She bent 
toward him and asked : 

'‘Have you looked up radium? I sent the cards to 
impress it on your attention. I hoped they would arouse 
your interest and make it easier for me to enlist your 
aid.” 

Charley manifested reluctance to answer this, but Mr. 
Teeters broke out with the remark — 

“We thought it was some kind of patent dope you 
took with a spoon.” 

Brother and sister exchanged glances. 

“By Jove, you don’t say!” was Mr. Shuff’s smoth- 
ered comment. 

“It is the most precious metal known,” said the lady, 
a little breathlessly, “and a wonderful curative agent. 
I don’t suppose there’s an ounce of it in all the labora- 
tories of the world. If there is it is worth four million 
dollars. Just a single grain — so small that you can 
scarcely see it — is worth eight thousand six hundred 
dollars.” 

“Merry Moses!” twittered Mr. Teeters. 

“Go on,” said Charley quietly to the girl. “Where do 
I come in?” 

This direct inquiry brought another lightning ex- 
change of glances between Inez and her brother. He 
gave a barely perceptible nod, and she spoke up quickly. 

“I want you, Charley — I may call you that? — I want 
you, Charley, my dear friend, to help me recover one 
gram of radium which is being kept from me unlaw- 
fully by the man I have mentioned. Will you do it?” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Where is he?” 

He got up with a business-like air that Mr. Link would 
have recognized. 


A BEAL IN RADIUM 


45 


“Oh, not in that way!” cried the widow. She caught 
his hand and pulled him down beside her. 

“How?” demanded Charley. 

“Not by force; not that. Jack tried it. We must use 
a different method.” 

She had, quite unthinkingly no doubt, retained her 
hold on him, letting their hands lie hidden between them 
on the sofa. Charley felt now a gentle pressure on 
his fingers, and his pulses leaped to it. 

“You’re the doctor,” he declared. “Anything you say 
goes with me.” 

She cast a look of entreaty at Mr. Teeters. It gave 
him to understand that he was not neglected in her 
scheme of things, that he was essential to her plans. 
He puffed out his chest. 

“I’m sitting in with Come-On,” he protested. “Pat 
hand. What’s a gram?” 

“A gram,” interjected Mr. Shuff, “is the equivalent 
of fifteen and a half grains. It’s worth a hundred and 
thirty-three thousand dollars, spot cash.” 

“And who,” questioned Mr. Teeters, “is this gay guy 
that’s holding out on Inez?” 

“A little runt named — er — Heck; Ed Heck,” growled 
the big man. “Dirty scoundrel!” 

“Wait!” begged Inez. “Let me explain. Percival — 
you don’t object, do you?” 

“I’d kill myself if I did,” Mr. Teeters told her. 

“Percival, this man Heck stole the radium from my 
husband, who was a Spanish nobleman and a great scien- 
tist — Don Emilio Alfonso de Castro. You may have 
heard of him. He died three months ago.” 

“I seen his name in the papers,” lied Mr. Teeters 
readily. 


46 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Mr. Shuff regarded him attentively, but Mrs. de Castro 
beamed on him and said : 

“Yes, his death was widely published. He was very 

much older than I. We ” Charley felt the slender 

fingers stir caressingly — “we were almost like father and 
daughter. The radium was his fortune — not much, but 
enough to have made me comfortable at the price it 
would bring. But Heck ” 

She withdrew her hand from Charley’s and flung her 
arms out wide to convey her sense of desolation. 

“Here’s the case in a nutshell, boys,” said Mr. Shuff, 
with evident intolerance of his sister’s way of doing 
business. “This beast Heck has the radium. It’s in a 
glass tube no thicker than a pencil and not half as long. 
If we have him jugged we won’t get the radium. He’ll 
hide it. But on the other hand he can’t sell it because' 
it would make a stir — a gram of radium — and he’d have 
to tell where he got it. Understand?” 

“Sure,” said Charley. 

“He came here the other day,” continued Mr. Shuff, 
“and made us a proposition. I kicked him out of the 
house, and he sent word he’d give us just a week in 
which to meet his terms. If we didn’t come to time 
he’d throw the radium in the river, and that would be 
the end of it. The week’s up to-morrow, and we haven’t 
got the money. He wants thirty thousand dollars, and 
we can’t scrape up more than fifteen. We’re up a 
stump.” 

Mr. Shuff wrapped himself in gloom and centered his 
gaze on his toe. The fair Inez sat in statuesque fixity, 
her hands clasped on her breast, her eyes on the floor. 
The Mater Dolorosa had nothing on her as a picture 
of sorrowing despair. Charley looked from one to the 
other and then at Mr. Teeters. 


A DEAL IN RADIUM 


47 


“He’s no hick, this Heck,” observed the secretary 
sagely. “He’s a con man all right enough.” 

“Well, what’s the answer, Percy?” Mr. Carter desired 
to know. 

“You got to handle con men with their own mitts,” 
returned Mr. Teeters. “Got to give ’em the double 
cross. This guy’s trying to frisk our friends; all right, 
we got to frisk him. See?” 

Charley waved his hand at Mr. Shuff. 

“There you are, Jack. He’s wise. Keeps his fingers 
crossed all the time.” 

“He’s wonderful!” asserted Inez, coming suddenly to 
life. “What do you propose, Percival?” 

“Put a cop in the closet, get Heck here, pinch him 
and take his gum away. It’s easy — like eating eels.” 

Mr. Shuff laughed mirthlessly. 

“You don’t know Heck,” he remarked. “He’s a 
snake ! If you step on him he’ll bite.” 

“On the toe?” quizzed Charley, grinning. 

“Good, that!” said Mr. Shuff. “First rate! Ha, ha! 

But ” he became grave again — “this time he’ll come 

with a strong-arm man, a gun-fighter. I know Heck. 
If we try any funny business there’ll be shooting, and 
somebody’ll get hurt.” 

“Oh!” gasped Inez. “We can’t have that. I would 
rather pay him what he asks and be rid of him. I’ll 
still have over a hundred thousand dollars.” 

Mr. Shuff expressed astonishment at this. 

“You’re not going to give Charley anything for loan- 
ing you the fifteen? By Jove, Inez, you’ve got your 
nerve !” 

The beautiful young woman’s embarrassment was 
painful to witness. 


48 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Why — certainly, Jack — anything he says — of course. 
Ten thousand — willingly.” 

“I guess not,” said Charley. “Reward enough to 
help a lady. Glad to do it. Ask Percy.” 

He glanced over at Mr. Teeters a little anxiously; 
Percy was the watchdog of his treasury. 

“Gollamighty, fifteen thousand bones !” barked the 
watch-dog, albeit somewhat feebly. 

“You’ll keep the radium in your possession, of 
course, till we sell it,” Mr. Shuff informed him. “Pretty 
big security, eh — a hundred and thirty-three thousand 
dollars?” 

Mr. Teeters’s brow cleared. 

“That’s different,” he conceded. 

“And,” concluded Mr. Shuff, “I insist on the ten 
thousand. It’s only fair. Without you boys we lose 
the whole cheese. Ninety-three thousand for Inez is a 
lot better than nothing.” 

“Oh, yes, yes !” approved his sister. “I couldn’t 
think ” 

“Don’t think,” smiled Charley at her. “Bad habit. 
Never do myself.” 

He produced a pocket checkbook, but Mr. Shuff mo- 
tioned it away. 

“Checks won’t go with Heck, my dear boy. It’s 
cold cash with him. You bring the fifteen thousand 
here to-morrow at eleven o’clock, and we’ll have our 
fifteen ready. And keep this thing under your hat ; Inez 
doesn’t want it talked about. Bring a couple of taxis 
with you, and before we pay over the money we’ll drive 
down to Bellevue Hospital and have those doctor sharps 
pass on the radium. We’ve got to make sure Heck 
isn’t running in a ringer on us. You two and Inez 
will go in one cab with the coin, and I’ll go with Heck 


A DEAL IN RADIUM 


49 


and the radium in the other. Get me?” He dipped his 
head knowingly at Charley. 

“Sure,” said Mr. Carter. “Good scheme. Won’t take 
any chances.” 

Mr. Shuff stood up with much less effort than he had 
expended in sitting down. 

“Jack! Your toe! Be careful!” His sister’s voice 
rang out sharply. 

“Ouch ! Confound it, I forget the deuced thing !” was 
Mr. Shuff’s immediate response. “Percy, give me a 
hand in the dining-room; that’s a good fellow. There’s 
a bottle in the cooler crying to be opened.” 

Mr. Teeters arose with alacrity. 

“I’m the little joker that invented corkscrews,” he 
avowed, and strutted off in the wake of the limping Mr. 
Shuff. 

“Charley,” whispered Inez, when they had gone, 
“Charley, are you really going to help me?” 

“Surest thing you know!” said Charley. “Proud to 
do it.” 

She searched his face with her eyes, and he smiled 
into them with boyish ardor. There was a way, the 
lady knew, to place the matter beyond a doubt, and she 
adopted it. With a swift, birdlike movement she darted 
at his lips and touched them with her own. Then, 
springing up, she ran into the dining-room without a 
backward look, and Charley, dumb with the wonder of 
this rare experience, followed in a delicious daze. 


CHAPTER M 


THE RUN IN THE TAXI 

Two taxicabs waited before the Hotel Rirebien for 
Mr. Carter attd his secretary. Pierre, the doorman, had 
called them a half an hour since, and their meters were 
buzzing merrily. 

Mr. Link was the cause of the delay. He had come 
around to give the usual morning lesson in the manly 
art of self-defense, and had found his patron’s thoughts 
engaged with foreign matters. In fact, Messrs. Carter 
and Teeters were just returned from the bank when 
Mr. Link, with the lack of ceremony which distinguishes 
the truly great, walked in on them unannounced. A pile 
of banknotes lay on the table. 

“Lord love me !” exclaimed the athlete. “Are you go- 
ing to start a faro bank or buck one?” 

“Nothing doing with the gloves to-day, Joe,” said 
Charley blandly. “Come around to-morrow.” 

He picked up the notes and transferred them to an 
inner pocket. It was practically his entire bank bal- 
ance, and he had drawn it without a tremor. 

“In thousands!” choked Mr. Link. “And there must 
be twenty of them!” 

“Nothing doing to-day, Joe,” repeated Charley. 
“Come along, Teet.” 

Mr. Link blocked the way to the door. His jaw was 
set. 


50 


THE RUN IN THE TAXI 


51 


“I’m on,” he announced. “They hooked you, yester- 
day. You’re going to put a bet down on that radium 
junk. Going to slip that bale of kale to the pretty lady 
with the bright blue eyes. Mother of mine ! You ought 
to be in your little cribs, you two, with the bottle on 
the pillow.” 

“Where did you get that stuff?” inquired Mr. Teeters 
scornfully. “Not out of your own head?” 

Mr. Link motioned him to silence as he would have 
a fretful child. He addressed himself to Charley in 
pleading tones. 

“Look here, boss, I ought to call the cops. It ain’t 
right to let you out lined with pay-checks to feed that 
fairy with. By the Rock of Cashel I’m minded to put 
you in the bath and soak your brains loose. They’re all 
matted up.” 

Charley stepped over to the door of the adjoining 
room and locked it. He dropped the key in his pocket 
and returned to Mr. Link. 

“Go on out, Teet,” he said. “I’m going to stay here 
with Joe a while.” 

Mr. Link let Mr. Teeters pass. The secretary went 
into the hall, leaving the door ajar that he might at least 
have aural information of what happened within. Mr. 
Link was mystified and showed it. 

“What’s the idea?” he asked. 

Charley waved him to a chair. 

“Sit down,” he invited pleasantly. 

Mr. Link grunted and walked over to the table. 
Charley in one bound made the door. The key, as he 
knew, was on the outside, as he had left it. 

“See you later, Joe,” he grinned. “Take a nap. I’ll 
tell them at the office not to trouble you.” 

He slammed the door and locked it, and went off hap- 


52 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


pily with the cackling Mr. Teeters, quite forgetful of the 
telephone at Mr. Link’s command. 

It was Mr. Shuff this time who opened to them at the 
flat in Forty-fifth Street. His toe seemed to have made 
a marvelous recovery overnight. He limped only when 
he thought of it. 

“You’re late,” was his greeting. “ ’Fraid something 
had happened to you.” He saw Charley’s eye search- 
ing the room. “Inez is dressing. She’ll be in soon. 
Er — Heck, this is Mr. Carter and his secretary, Mr. 
Teeters.” 

Mr. Heck, who was a little man with a crooked, left- 
sided mouth, jerked his chin by way of salutation, and 
introduced a burly individual standing near as “Mr. 
Watts.” 

Mr. Watts, apparently, was unused to good society. 
He simply scowled and stared. 

“Let’s get to cases,” said Mr. Heck curtly. “I’ve no 
time to waste. Here’s the radium; where’s the cash?” 

He tapped a yellow pigskin satchel on the table and 
looked at Mr. Shuff, who looked at Charley. 

“Got yours?” he questioned. “I’ve got mine.” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Let’s have a peek at the ra- 
dium first.” 

“Yes,” concurred Mr. Teeters. “We ain’t buying a 
pig in a poke.” 

Mr. Watts glared at him and licked his lips sug- 
gestively. Mr. Teeters shrank into the background. Mr. 
Heck did not seem to take the request amiss, however. 
He opened the bag and took from it a rosewood box. 
This he unlocked with a small brass key and lifted the 
lid. On a bed of cotton reposed a tube of colored glass. 

“There you have it,” proclaimed Mr. Heck. “Take 
it up, if you like, but I won’t be responsible. That lit- 


THE RUN IN THE TAXI 


53 


tie tube is shooting out rays at the speed of one hundred 
and thirty thousand miles a second. It’s the deadliest 
thing in New York if you don’t know how to handle it.” 

Mr. Watts recoiled from the table with a frightened 
oath, and Mr. Teeters retreated to the window. On a 
pinch such a trifle as the sash would prove no obstacle 
to a leap for life. 

“For Heaven’s sake put the thing up, Heck,” petitioned 
Mr. Shuff. “Here, count this money.” 

He threw a fat roll of yellow backs on the table under 
Charley’s nose. Mr. Heck reached over and drew the 
banknotes to him. He ran through them with tender 
solicitude, and shoved the pile to one side. 

“Fifteen thousand,” he stated. “Where’s the rest?” 

Charley laid before him his packet of bills, which Mr. 
Heck counted with even tenderer solicitude. 

“Right!” he pronounced. “Who’s going to carry this 
bundle?” 

“Mr. Carter,” spoke up Mr. Shuff promptly. “I’ll 
get something to put it in.” 

He went into the next room and reappeared almost 
immediately with a satchel which was the counterpart 
of Mr. Heck’s. Both were new, and of the same size 
and color. 

“Funny,” said Charley, pointing to them. Mr. Shuff 
voiced amazement. 

“Well, by Jove! Heck, I bought mine at Black’s 
this morning. Where did you get yours?” 

“At Black’s yesterday. Off the same shelf, it looks 
like.” 

“Well, well!” remarked Mr. Shuff as he gathered up 
the currency and dropped it in his bag. “It’s funny, 
Heck, as my friend here says. Er — mightn’t happen 
again in a hundred years.” He turned the key in the 


54 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


lock and, withdrawing it, handed it to Charley. “Freeze 
on to that, old chap. When we get to Bellevue, if every- 
thing’s all right we’ll pay over the coin.” 

He placed the bag on the side of the table next to 
Charley. Mr. Heck with his bag was on the opposite 
side. And here Inez came in, her loveliness filling the 
room like a burst of incarnated melody. 

“Are we ready?” She put the question to Charley, 
at the same time giving him a look that promised sweet 
rewards for his knightly succor. 

“In a minute,” said Charley, his eyes kindling. 

He sat down at the table and took from his pocket 
a fountain pen and his checkbook. He tore out a blank 
check and wrote a few lines on the back of it. This 
procedure was so unexpected that the others could only 
gaze in surprise. Having finished, Charley read his pro- 
duction : 

In exchange for thirty thousand dollars I prom- 
ise to deliver to bearer one gram of genuine ra- 
dium. 

Mr. Carter pushed the paper and pen over to Mr. 
Heck. 

“Sign it,” he requested. 

There was a moment’s silence. Then Inez spoke: 

“He’s right, Jack. Suppose this — this creature should 
try to raise his price at Bellevue? Don’t you see?” 

“Sign it, Heck,” said Mr. Shuff sternly. “I wouldn’t 
trust you with a pennyworth of rusty nails.” 

“Say, you! Can that line of chatter,” snarled Mr. 
Watts. 

The widow tossed her head, but her brother mut- 
tered a word of apology and drew away from the man. 


THE RUN IN THE TAXI 


55 


Charley glanced up at him curiously, and then gave his 
attention to Mr. Heck. That gentleman, after a fleet- 
ing hesitation, smiled grimly and put his name to the 
paper. He passed it back with a repetition of the re- 
mark that he had no time to lose. 

“You’ll wait, sir,” Inez told him acidly, “until I have 
conferred with Mr. Carter.” 

She beckoned Charley and Mr. Teeters into a corner 
and, somewhat superfluously it would appear, cautioned 
them against the desperado Watts. Sudden death walked 
with him, and violence was his handmaid. 

Mr. Teeters grew white as he listened, but Charley 
rejoiced. This adorable solicitude for his safety ex- 
cused the existence of Watts and all his tribe. Then, 
as it chanced, his eye strayed to a large framed print 
of Zatka’s “Water Nymphs,” which hung above the girl’s 
head. The light so fell upon the glass that it mirrored 
a section of the room. Charley’s lips tightened as he 
looked, but he stood perfectly still. 

“Cut it short, Inez !” warned Mr. Shuff. 

“Charley, get your bag,” was the girl’s rejoinder. 

To reach the table Charley had to pass Mr. Watts. 
In doing so he brushed against him awkwardly. Mr. 
Watts turned on him with an oath. 

“Don’t,” said Charley to him evenly. “Lady present.” 

He stopped short and faced the fellow. Mr. Teeters, 
just behind, also stopped. His mustache was wiggling. 

“Why,” bellowed the outraged Watts, “you little 
shrimp, I’ll ” 

Charley’s fist shot up with a short-arm lift — one of 
Mr. Link’s pet jolts. It caught the untamed daredevil 
on the point of his chin. He staggered back an impotent 
step or two, and fell to the floor like a butchered beef, 
his head in the dining-room. Mr. Teeters emitted a 


56 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


screech, and sprang forward. He towered over the in- 
animate Mr. Watts, a wavering pistol in his hand. 

“Gun-fighter, is he?” he panted. “I’ll show him! 
I’ll fix his clock for him! I’ll fill his works full of 
pills!” 

Jack Shuff and his sister and Mr. Heck rushed to 
the rescue of Mr. Watts. Charley stood where he was, 
by the table. 

“You fool !” hissed Mr. Shuff at the hysterical secre- 
tary. “Do you want to bring the bulls in on us?” 

“Come here, Percy,” commanded Charley. “Let him 
sleep.” 

Mr. Heck swung around savagely. 

“You’ve killed him!” he yapped, searching for signs 
of fright at the announcement. 

“Good job,” said Charley coolly. “Want to take the 
corpse with you or leave it here? I’m going.” He 
picked up his bag and nodded to Inez. “Ready?” he 
asked. 

A quick interrogation passed from the young woman’s 
eyes to her brother’s. 

“Go on, you three,” directed Mr. Shuff sharply. 
“We’ll follow. If Watts finds Charley here when he 
comes to there’ll be the devil to pay. Go on.” 

The widow, whose emotions seemed well-nigh chok- 
ing her, summoned up a wan smile for Mr. Carter, and 
led the way to the street. 

The taxicab headed east for First Avenue, down 
which the run would be straightway to Bellevue Hos- 
pital. They had crossed Sixth Avenue when another 
taxi wheeled by, going in the opposite direction. In it 
sat Mr. Link. The pugilist, after a strenuous telephonic 
argument, had convinced the office at the Rirebien that 


THE RUN IN THE TAXI 


57 


his liberty was not a thing to be trifled with, and a boy 
was sent up to free him. 

As their cabs passed, mutual recognition also passed 
between Mr. Link and Mr. Teeters. Mr. Link shouted 
to his driver. Mr. Teeters yelped at Charley: 

“ Joe’s loose! Just seen him — on wheels / 7 

Charley grinned. 

“Hit her up / 7 he urged the man in front. 

“Joe! Who is Joe ? 77 demanded Inez in a flutter. 

“Friend , 77 said Charley. “Good old sport. Thought 
this radium business bunk, and tried to stop me. Joke ! 77 

He laughed. Mr. Teeters, who was looking back, 
called out — 

“He 7 s following us, Come-On ! 77 They were up now 
with the Grand Central Station. 

“Stop ! 77 shrilled Mrs. de Castro at the driver. “Stop ! 
Stop! I must use the telephone . 77 

The taxi came to a stand. The lady, who for some 
reason appeared to be quite beside herself, tugged at the 
door and pushed it open. Charley caught at her arm. 

“By George ! 77 he cried. “I say, Inez 77 

“Let me go ! 77 she snapped at him. “I haven’t a min- 
ute to lose. Wait for me . 77 

She leaped out and scurried down Park Avenue 
toward the depot. Mr. Teeters goggled after her, and 
remarked — * 

“Gollamighty, Come-On, there’s something wrong !” 

“Here’s Joe , 77 said Charley. 

Mr. Link burst from his cab, clamoring wildly. 

“You let the dame get away!” 

“She’s gone to telephone,” Mr. Teeters informed him 
— very mildly, however. 

Mr. Link laughed raucously. 


58 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Of course! You bet she has. Holy onions, what a 
pair of suckers!” 

“Hop in, Joe,” Charley bade him. “Nothing to get 
excited over.” 

“Nothing?” yelled Mr. Link, thrusting his generous 
person into the vehicle. “You’re right! It’s just what 
you’ve got in that grip — nothing! Nothing but ‘ra- 
dium.’ They’ve got the coin. It’s the old two-bag trick 
they played on you. Oh, my Lord!” 

“Maybe not,” said Charley calmly. “Take a peek in- 
side, Joe.” 

He unlocked the satchel. Mr. Link took a look and 
made a gurgling sound. 

“Money!” 

“Thirty thousand,” said Charley. “They switched 
bags on me. Saw it, and switched ’em back — when I 
floored that imitation White Hope, Percy. But I didn’t 
think Inez ” He stopped abruptly. 

“Gosh!” ejaculated Mr. Teeters, and lapsed into 
soundless self-communion. 

“Guess I’ll have to keep this money, Joe, till they bring 
around the radium,” observed Charley soberly. “Here’s 
a paper one of them signed.” 

He held out the agreement with Mr. Heck. The 
strong man read it slowly, and breathing hard. When 
at last he returned it he grunted out — 

“By all the saints it’s me the merry ha-ha’s on!” 

“Sure,” said Charley. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE STOLEN RUBY 

Everybody in New York knows Mouchard’s. You 
pay more for a lobster there than in any place on earth; 
and that is what its reputation is built on. 

Mr. Samuel Drew dwelt upon this and similar 
thoughts as he sat in a snug corner of the famous res- 
taurant before his fricandeau d’homard and pint of 
Romanee Conti. He had passed the evening at a much 
advertised play and was recompensing himself for three 
wasted hours; he could see a better drama of the kind 
any day at the police court, in less time and at no ex- 
pense. 

“Put up a big enough bluff in this town and stand 
to it,” he murmured to his wine, gently swaying it to 
and fro under his nose to catch the bouquet, “and they’ll 
tumble over themselves to help you make it good. 
Nerve is all you need — nerve!” 

Curiously enough, Mr. Drew instantly discovered that 
he himself was lacking in this prime essential. He set 
down his glass abruptly and his jolly round face be- 
trayed confusion ; for, coming straight toward him, 
though they had not yet caught sight of him, were Mr. 
Charles Arthur Carter and his secretary, Mr. Percival 
Teeters. 

Mr. Drew had not seen the twain — he had taken care 
not to — since the memorable day in Hamilton when he 
59 


60 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


made Charley offhand a millionaire by repute. Several 
times he had thought to put a period to his prank, but 
he had come to the pass where he did not know just ex- 
actly how to do it. Unpleasant publicity and a dam- 
aging reflection on his standing at the bar might follow, 
and this was a thing to be avoided; so he decided to 
let the matter rock along until a conclusion was forced 
on him, when he would get out of his predicament as 
best he could. Practical jokes, the learned brother had 
ascertained, are like certain rules — they work both ways. 

It was Mr. Teeters’s vagrant eye which spied the 
lawyer. He came to a halt. “Say, Come-On,” he whis- 
pered behind his hand, “if I ain’t seeing things, there’s 
Drew !” 

“Where?” questioned Charley. 

“Over there by the window — straight ahead.” Charley 
looked; and Mr. Drew, perceiving that he was run to 
earth, put on a bold front and waved his napkin at 
them. 

“Dear me!” he exclaimed when they stood before 
him. “I was just thinking of you boys. How are you, 
Mr. Carter; and you, Mr. Skee-Teeters?” 

“Bully,” said Charley. “How are you?” 

“Fine, fine!” returned the lawyer. “Heard you called 
at the office. Sorry I was away. Er — out of town, you 
know. Sit down and have a bite with me. I can recom- 
mend this lobster cutlet.” 

“Thanks,” said Charley. “Expect a friend. Supper 
with him. But glad to wait till he comes.” 

They took seats. Mr. Drew, who had just broached 
his bottle, called for glasses and insisted that they drink 
with him. It was a still, red burgundy, really old, but to 
Mr. Teeters it was simply — if we may use the word 
— slops. Wine to him meant hiss and bubbles, and if it 


THE STOLEN RUBY 


61 


met these requirements it might be vinted on the sunny 
slopes of Hoboken for all he knew or cared. As for 
Charley one wine was as good as another — and none of 
it enticing. 

Mr. Drew, then, poured pearls on Philistine palates, 
but in the process he recovered his poise. His joke 
began to seem good to him again as he gazed on the 
serious visage of Come-On Charley, and from that to 
the pale-eyed complacency of his attendant squire. 

“Came to see me at the office about your fortune, I 
suppose ?” he said jovially. 

Charley looked at him; and there was the shadow of 
a smile on his lips — too faint, perhaps, for Mr. Drew 
to note. “No,” he replied. “Friendly call. Shake hands. 
That’s all.” 

The portly advocate raised his brows. 

“The deuce! ’Pon my soul, I’m sorry I missed you. 
So the exchequer isn’t running dry, eh?” 

“No,” said Charley. 

“Good! Because you know the — er — conditions of 
your uncle’s will; you have to make your starter grow 
first. You have to earn your two millions, as one might 
say, eh?” 

“Sure,” said Charley soberly. 

“Excellent!” praised the other. “Excellent! And 
what, if I may ask, does your balance stand at now ?” 

“Thirty thousand,” answered Charley. 

Mr. Drew was about to introduce into his mouth a 
choice morsel from his plate; but at this intelligence 
he held it suspended midway and gaped at the young 
man. 

“Are you speaking in cents or dollars ?” he demanded. 
His tone was sharp. 

“Oh, just dollars,” chirped up Mr. Teeters for his 


6 £ 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


chief. “J us t: the little bully boys all in a row.” He 
gave a crackling laugh and airily fingered his mustache. 

“Easy Street,” remarked Charley cheerfully. 

The lawyer completed the gastronomic circuit and 
chewed his lobster with a puzzled frown. 

“Lord ! Lord !” he muttered to himself. “I’m a wizard 
and never suspected it.” He put down his fork and 
addressed Mr. Carter. “Tell me how it happened,” he 
requested. “I’m in fairly rugged health and can stand 
a good deal, but this is something of a shock. Tell it 
quick !” 

Charley tranquilly responded. He recited the sad story 
of the misplaced confidence of the radium tricksters; 
and he told it in sixty seconds and as many words. It 
would have made a “pony” press-dispatch writer sick 
abed with envy. 

Mr. Drew viewed the boy with a feeling almost ap- 
proaching affection — the sort of feeling one has for the 
work of his hands. 

“So,”, he observed, “in less than six weeks you have 
made ten thousand dollars grow to thirty — trebled it!” 

“Luck,” said Charley. 

“Urn. Perhaps,” grunted the lawyer. “Does it oc- 
cur to you, my young friend, that if you can keep the 
gait you’ve struck you’ll have your two million in short 
order ?” 

This appeared to cause Charley some perplexity. 

“Which two millions?” he inquired. 

Mr. Drew sought refuge in his wine. He was of a 
mind to make a clean breast of it then and there. But 
as he took in the boy’s serious face over the rim of his 
glass he balked at the task. 

“Confound it, sir,” he sputtered, “decide the question 
for yourself ! When did you say this thing happened ?” 


THE STOLEN RUBY 


63 


'‘Tuesday/’ Mr. Carter told him. 

“And this is Thursday. There’s been nothing in the 
papers about it, like that Bannerstein business.” 

“I guess not!” put in Mr. Teeters. “We’re laying low 
for another piece of pie. When they ring the bell we’ll 
be right there with the mazuma. Oh, I guess yes ! Hey, 
Come-On? We got a new graft — robbing robbers.” 

“Sure,” said Charley. He winked slowly at Mr. Drew 
and crossed his fingers. “Wise owl — Skeeters.” 

“Leave it to me!” cried the secretary, elated at this 
praise. “I can tell a con man now the length of Brook- 
lyn Bridge. They can’t fool me! I can tell ’em,” he 
bragged in a burst of self-laudation, “with my head 
in a bag and somebody tickling my toes. It’s easy as 
falling downstairs.” 

“Very likely,” said Mr. Drew dryly, though his vest 
buttons joggled a little. “If robbing robbers is your 
specialty, Mr. Skeeters, you want to keep a lookout for 
Brahma’s Eye, the great Oriental ruby that has been 
stolen.” 

Mr. Teeters was mystified. 

“Whose eye?” he queried. 

“Haven’t you read about it?” the lawyer asked him. 
“The papers have been full of it. How about you, 
Charley?” 

“Only read the sporting page,” confessed Charley 
frankly. “Keeps me busy.” 

“Say! Brahma’s the name of a chicken!” suddenly 
ejaculated Mr. Teeters, who had received light from 
within. “What’s a ruby got to do with it?” 

Mr. Drew’s vest buttons joggled again. 

“Brahma is the Hindu deity,” he explained with 
studied gravity. “The ruby was named for the great 
flaming eye of the god. Those Orientals have a pas- 


64 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


sion for that sort of thing, you know. It’s a wonderful 
stone, the most wonderful ruby in the world — pure 
pigeon-blood, big as a walnut and without a flaw. Mor- 
ton Butler — you’ve heard of him; the railroad king — 
bought it of an Indian prince for a hundred and fifty 
thousand dollars. And they stole it from him in Paris !” 

“Who did it?” It was Charley who put the question. 

The lawyer laughed. 

“That’s what Morton Butler would like to know. He 
has offered twenty-five thousand dollars for the return 
of the stone, and ten thousand for the arrest of the 
thieves.” 

“Wow!” said Mr. Carter humorously. 

“Oh, Butler’s mad clear through,” continued the at- 
torney, “for that ruby would have made his collection 
complete. The thieves, I suppose, will hold out for a 
bigger reward. They know Butler. Everybody does. 
What he wants he wants, no matter what the cost.” 

“And he wants that ruby!” suggested Charley with a 
grin. 

Mr. Drew’s reply, if inelegant, was expressive. 

“Like a cow her calf! I dare say Butler would pay 
the price of the stone over again if he had to. The 
gang is trading on the old man’s weakness ; they’ll raise 
the limit to the roof and wait for him to come across. 
That’s the way I figure it.” 

“Huh ! I guess we ain’t in on this, Come-On,” grum- 
bled Mr. Teeters. “Paris ain’t around the corner.” 

“But they may bring it over here,” encouraged Mr. 
Drew. “They’ll want to keep close to Butler, ready to 
snap him up quick when he shows the white flag. It 
is thought they are Americans — the crooks — and they 
are watching the boats. Uncle Sam is interested because 
there’s a twenty per cent, duty involved, and, besides, 


THE STOLEN RUBY 


65 


old Butler has a pull in Washington. Shouldn't be sur- 
prised if the Secret Service is at work on the case. 
Hullo ! Isn't this your friend ?" 

A man of middle age and prosperous appearance, with 
a hint of the military in his bearing, had come up and 
was smilingly trying to attract Charley’s attention. 

“Major Norris!” exclaimed Mr. Teeters. 

He arose hastily and shook hands with the newcomer. 
Charley leaned over and whispered to Mr. Drew : 

“Good old sport. Stopping at the Rirebien. Want to 
know him?” 

“No,” said the lawyer. “Go along. I’m leaving.” 

Charley got up. 

“My dear fellow,” said Major Norris to him, “pray 
accept my apologies. I was detained. But I have a 
table reserved, and if this gentleman will permit us ” 

He made a courteous gesture, and paused. His voice 
was deep and resonant, and Mr. Drew rather fancied 
the man. He bowed them away, and as he went out, a 
few moments later, bowed to them again at their table 
in the far side of the room. 

“Jolly sort of chap that, I should say,” offered Major 
Norris tentatively. “Actor ?” 

Charley grinned at him. 

“By George! That's good!” he declared. 

“He’s Come-On’s lawyer,” spoke up Mr. Teeters. 
“Samuel Drew, Esquire.” He said it importantly. To 
have a lawyer, he seemed to feel, was a claim to dis- 
tinction. Others have felt the same — until the day of 
settlement. 

“Ah, I see!” was the Major’s simple comment on the 
information he had elicited; and he went on with his 
cassolette of lobster a shade thoughtfully. 


6C 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Ever hear, Major,” inquired Charley, “about 

Whose eye was it, Skeeters? What chicken?” 

“Brahma,” Mr. Teeters prompted him. 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Brahma’s Eye. Ever hear 
about it, sir?” 

The soldierly gentleman pushed his plate away and 
looked across the table at his questioner with friendly 
indulgence. 

“My dear boy,” he replied, “who hasn’t? I imagine 
every paper in the world has printed something about 
that steal. Very cleverly done, too. No ordinary 
thieves.” 

“You bet!” applauded Mr. Teeters. “When you can 
hang a thing like that on a guy with a dough-bag big 
enough to choke the Jersey tunnel you’ve set your clock 
ahead a bit.” 

Major Norris nodded a laughing assent. 

“Very smartly put, Mr. Teeters. It’s not just plain 
stealing; it smacks of genius. It’s Napoleonic, by Jove!” 

“Gee !” said Charley. “I’d like to see that ruby.” 

“So would I,” concurred the Major. He motioned to 
the waiter to remove the course, and when this was done 
he turned to his guests with a serious air. “Boys,” 
he said, “I’m in rather an awkward fix. I wonder if 
you’ll help me out?” 

Charley’s hand automatically sought his checkbook. 

“Sure!” he responded. “How much?” 

But Major Norris waved the book back to its hiding- 
place with a fleeting smile. 

“My dear Carter, it’s handsome of you, but it’s not 
that kind of a fix,” he stated. “It’s to do with my daugh- 
ter. I’m expecting her to-morrow, as you know, on the 
Veronica from London. I came over from Cincinnati to 


THE STOLEN RUBY 


67 


meet her, and now at the last minute a matter pops up 
that will prevent me. It’s devilish annoying !” 

The Major plucked at his gray imperial and frowned. 

“Too bad,” said Charley, with ready sympathy, but 
with not so ready understanding. Mr. Teeters, though, 
grasped the situation. 

“Wake up, Come-On!” he cried. “We got a part to 
play — meeting popper’s only child. Hey, Major? Ain’t 
that the stunt?” 

He cackled and wiggled his mustache at the gentleman 
from Cincinnati, who took it in excellent part. 

“If you will be so kind,” he said, his brow clearing. 
“I was reluctant to ask it, but I have no friends here 
except yourselves who — to be quite frank about it — r 
would care to have Madeleine meet I’m a little particu- 
lar in these things.” 

Mr. Teeters twirled his mustache and ran over in his 
mind his list of jaunty neckties. 

“Can’t be too careful,” he observed complacently. 

“Assuredly so,” agreed Madeleine’s father. “The 
matter stands like this: The Veronica is due to dock at 
ten o’clock. It is exactly at that hour my engagement 
is made for to-morrow, and it’s too vitally important to 
be deferred. In brief, the man is leaving town and 
I’ve simply got to see him.” 

“Glad to meet the lady,” Charley told the Major 

gravely. “But ” his eyes were puzzled — “how are 

we going to know her?” 

Major Norris laughed lightly. He took from his 
pocket a small photograph and laid it before the two. 

“This will help you,” he remarked. “I’m rather vain 
of that girl, boys.” 

Mr. Carter and Mr. Teeters gazed at the picture. It 


68 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


bore the imprint of a famous Parisian photographer, and 
was a splendid example of his art. 

“Say! By George! She’s a stunner!” There was a 
little catch in Charley’s voice. 

“She has blue eyes and black hair,” mentioned Major 
Norris, “and she’s a tiny trick — doesn’t weigh over a 
hundred and ten.” He beamed with parental pride. 
“Think you’ll know her?” 

“In a million!” affirmed Mr. Teeters. “But how’ll 
she know us, hey? She may take us for a couple of 
Jump- Johnnies and call a cop.” 

“I’ve got it!” sang out Charley in a flash of inspira- 
tion. “Wireless ! Give our names. White rose in coats. 
No mistake then. Everything O. K.” 

Major Norris leaned back and looked his admiration 
at this luminous suggestion. 

“Why, to be sure !” he acclaimed. “The simplest thing 
in the world — and I never thought of it! Hang it all, 
gentlemen, I must be getting old ! Waiter, bring on the 
Pink Seal, and don’t forget to chill the glasses.” 


CHAPTER VII 


A TILT WITH THE LAW 

Mr. Carter and his secretary rolled up m a big yel- 
low car to the steamer’s pier at a quarter of ten. A 
bridal rose, full-blown with beauty, clung to each coat 
and made of them marked men ; they were as conspicu- 
ous as spots on the sun. To their consternation they 
found that the Veronica had been warped into her berth 
some time before. 

“Maybe she’s gone — gave us up for a yoke of cater- 
pillars hitched to a dray,” croaked Mr. Teeters as they 
raced for the gangplank. 

“By George!” exclaimed Charley in dismay. 

But standing by the rail as they went aboard was a 
young woman whose face lighted up when she beheld 
them. 

“To see Miss Norris?” she questioned with subdued 
eagerness. “I’m her maid; come this way, please.” 

They followed the maid to a reception-room forward 
of the main saloon, where she drew back and motioned 
them to enter. In a corner of the room a beautiful girl, 
small and slender, was seated in a low wicker chair, 
saucily indifferent to the baleful glare of a big, burly 
old gentleman with a bulbous nose who stood menacingly 
over her. 

Two special Treasury agents were ranged alongside 
of him. The girl was indolently picking at a five-pound 
69 


70 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


box of candied fruits which lay in her lap, and had just 
selected with her tongs a tempting cherry when Messrs. 
Carter and Teeters walked in. She dropped the cherry 
and cried out in a glad voice 

“Charley !” 

This utter absence of formality staggered yet delighted 
Mr. Carter and, it may be added, surprised him. How 
did she know him from Merciful Skeeters? He fur- 
nished the answer himself by stepping forward, a thing 
on which Miss Norris had, of course, quite naturally 
counted. 

“Charley,” she chattered on, without giving him a 
chance to speak, “do tell these horrid people that I am 
a perfectly proper person, and you’ve known me for 
ages. They’ve been frightfully disagreeable.” 

She stood up to welcome him, holding the box of con- 
fections awkwardly pressed to her breast, and with her 
free hand she drew him impetuously to her and kissed 
him on the cheek. Charley flushed a brick red. 

“Help me !” she breathed in his ear. And then : “Oh, 
Mr. Teeters !” as that young man advanced, hoping for 
similar treatment. “How do you do ? So pleased to see 
you !” 

Mr. Teeters took the hand she extended, but there was 
no tension to it, no drawing in toward herself. He cov- 
ered his disappointment gallantly, however, and said — 

“Had a good trip, I hope; didn’t lose the bill of 
fare.” 

“Well, well,” growled the old gentleman with the bul- 
bous nose, “we are getting nowhere with all this.” 

Charley looked at him belligerently. A kiss well be- 
stowed has many a time bought a knight’s allegiance. 
Consult your histories if you doubt this. So 

“What’s the trouble?” Mr. Carter demanded coldly. 


r A TILT WITH THE LAW 


71 


The old gentleman scowled at the customs men. 

“Do you know this person, either of you?” He shot 
out the question irritably. 

“Why, yes, sir,” replied one of the officials. “I know 
him by sight — everybody does along Broadway. He is 
Mr. Charley Carter.” He lowered his voice: “Worth a 
couple of million.” 

Charley took his turn at seeking information. 

“Pleasant old party. Polite. Who is he?” he in- 
quired of Miss Norris. 

She smiled maliciously. 

“Is it possible you don’t know him, Charley? Good 
gracious ! Why, it’s Mr. Morton Butler. He owns 
everything in sight except, I am told, a ruby called 
Brahma’s Eye. He seems to have lost that, and is quite 
put out about it — quite upset, really.” 

“Brahma’s Eye !” echoed Charley. “By George ! 
Hear that, Percy?” 

Mr. Teeters whistled softly and wiggled his mus- 
tache. Morton Butler swooped around on the speaker. 

“What do you know about it?” he snarled. 

“Not a thing,” Charley told him tranquilly. “Only 
heard of it last night. But what’s the trouble here? 
Lady’s my friend. So is her father — Major Norris.” 

Miss Norris laughed unrestrainedly. 

“He thinks, Charley,” she gurgled, “that I have his 
ruby! He’s been watching me like a cat all the way 
over. Oh, I’d like to see papa’s face when he hears of 
it! Mr. Teeters, do hold this for me.” She thrust 
the box of crystallized fruits into his arms. “I want 
to find my handkerchief.” 

She found it and wiped away the tears of merriment 
from her azure eyes, letting herself fall into a seat as 
she did so. She looked so very young and little — so like 


72 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


a roguish miss just out of school — that it would have 
melted any heart save Morton Butler’s. Charley’s was 
like butter. 

“Say, this won’t do!” he expostulated to the scowling 
money-king, who was manifestly a prey to doubt. 

“I’d be angry if it wasn’t such a joke,” giggled Miss 
Norris. “I have declared everything, and they’ve rum- 
maged my trunks, and now — Charley, he wants me 
searched ! And Agnes, my maid ! Can you think of any- 
thing so ridiculous?” 

“He’s nuts!” jeered Mr. Teeters. “His ridgepole’s out 
of plumb.” 

Charley’s teeth clenched. He was wishing this was 
not an old man before him. He would have liked to lay 
violent hands on him. Instead, he spoke to the agent 
who had recognized him. 

“What’s the law?” he asked. 

“If Mr. Butler says so we’ve got to do it,” the in- 
spector answered. “A woman examiner, of course.” 

“He won’t say it,” tittered Miss Norris from behind 
her handkerchief. “He knows better. It would cost 
him something when papa got through with him. Oh, 
I wish he were here!” 

The great man, who had been wrapped in thought 
heedless of these trivial remarks, seemed suddenly to ar- 
rive at a decision. 

“I saw this young person in Paris several times,” he 
stated harshly. “Her actions were suspicious, as I after- 
ward recalled. When the ruby was stolen she disap- 
peared, and it was only by accident that we took the 
same boat. If I’m wrong I’ll pay for it — but I’ll have 
her searched. Take her away!” 

Miss Norris gasped and sprang to her feet. There 


A TILT WITH THE LAW 


73 


was no laughter in her eyes now ; they were flashing dan- 
gerously. 

“It is a case of mistaken identity,” she asseverated. 
“Be careful, sir!” 

The man of many millions stared at her and grunted 
— simply that; and the girl stared back at him, as if 
doubting the reality of her position. Then she drew up 
her slight form to its utmost inch and threw out her 
hands in a gesture that, had she been born an actress, 
would not have better conveyed the sense of outraged 
womanhood. 

“You really mean to do this thing — to put this insult 
on me?” she demanded, low-voiced and quivering. 

For reply Morton Butler took a huge black cigar 
from his pocket and placed it between his teeth. This 
little act of courtesy performed, he motioned the Treas- 
ury sleuths toward the girl and turned to leave the 
room. Charley and Mr. Teeters looked on aghast. They 
felt powerless to cope with this situation, backed as it 
was by the majesty of the law. But not so Miss Norris. 

“Stop!” she called out. “You are not absolute, old 
man, swollen though you are with the power of your 
money. I have rights that you are bound to respect — 
that these men must respect.” 

The railroad magnate faced about and regarded her 
with plain distaste. 

“Well?” He flung the word at her as he might have a 
penny to a beggar. 

“I demand the protection of my father’s presence,” 
the girl retorted. I refuse to budge until he comes. I 
shall make a scene if you try to use compulsion. I’ll 
have all New York talking about you before night — 
laughing at the fool you’ve made of yourself! Char- 


74 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


ley ” she appealed passionately to the boy — “will you 

please go and bring my father to me?” 

“Sure thing,” rejoined Mr. Carter. “Guess the Ma- 
jor’ll make him dance.” He moved quickly to the 
door. 

“Go with him, Mr. Teeters.” The girl ran to the sec- 
retary and urged him on. “Tell my father he must 
drop everything and come. If it costs him millions he 
must do it. No! No!” she broke out petulantly as he 
would have returned the box of fruits to her. “Keep it 
for me. Get my father and bring him to me. Hurry! 
Hurry! I’ll see if this old brute can treat me like a 
thief !” 

She spun around on her heel, and as Charley and 
Mr. Teeters scurried off they saw her snapping her 
fingers under the bulbous nose of the startled plutocrat 
like a little fury egged on by a thousand devils. 

Mr. Carter and Mr. Teeters hustled down the gang- 
plank. As they stepped upon the dock a man stopped 
them. 

“What you got there?” he queried, pointing to the 
box under Mr. Teeters’s arm — he had come off without 
the lid, and the contents were plain to the naked eye. 

“Doughnuts,” said Mr. Teeters. “Have one?” 

He held out the box. Miss Norris had tumbled the 
upper layers considerably with the tongs, and it looked 
sticky and rather messy. The customs man chuckled and 
slapped a chalk mark on the box. 

“Pass,” he said, and they went on. 

“Hotel, Billy. Push her,” Charley bade the driver 
when they reached their car. 

And then a mischance happened. Charley’s foot was 
on the running-board when he held back and motioned 
Mr. Teeters to jump in first. The secretary started to 


A TILT WITH THE LAW 


75 


obey. In some way his foot encountered Charley’s, and 
he tripped and plunged head first into the tonneau. The 
sugared fruits were sprawled all over the floor-cloth. 
Mr. Teeters squealed in dismay and picked himself up 
with a rueful countenance. 

“Gee!” ejaculated Charley. “That’s a muss. Have 
to get another lot. Hop up in front, Skeeters. I’ll chuck 
this stuff out as we go along.” 

He did. He left a trail of plums, pears, apricots and 
what not from Eighteenth Street to Twenty-third, when 
the supply ran out. Then he leaned back in the seat and 
gave himself over to reflection. 

At the Rirebien they learned that Major Norris had 
not returned. 

“Merry Moses !” vociferated Mr. Teeters. “What are 
we going to do, Come-On?” 

“Got to wait,” said Charley. “Chase around the cor- 
ner. Leroy’s. Get a box of candied fruit. Same size. 
I’ll stick here.” 

Mr. Teeters dashed out. Charley crossed to the cigar 
stand and bought a mild panatella. He exchanged a few 
pleasantries with the girl in charge, who had secret 
hopes of him, and then took a seat facing the door. 
As he did so he glanced at his watch. It was after 
eleven, and the Major’s engagement was for ten. He 
ought to be back soon. He would, of course, be expect- 
ing to find his daughter waiting for him and would 
hurry. 

Mr. Teeters presently came dashing in with a box 
under his arm neatly done up in plain white paper. 

“Say, Come-On,” he panted as he sat down and dan- 
dled the box on his knee, “this is fierce. That poor lit- 
tle girl will think we’ve lost a shoe.” 


76 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Too bad,” said Charley absently, “but can’t go back 
without the Major.” 

He was watching a man, spruce and business-like, 
who had just come in from the street and was saunter- 
ing around the lobby scrutinizing the occupants. He saw 
this person stop a passing bell-boy and speak to him, 
and saw the boy point in his direction; and then the 
man came over to him. 

“Mr. Charley Carter?” he inquired briskly. 

“Yes,” Charley told him. 

“My name is Jones,” vouchsafed the other. “Fm 
from Major Norris. He won’t be able to get here for 
an hour or more.” 

“Gollamighty !” burst out Mr. Teeters. “We got to 
see him. Got to take him to his daughter. They’re 
fixing to run her through the hopper. Going to search 
her for Brahma’s Eye. Outrage!” 

Mr. Jones was singularly undisturbed at this an- 
nouncement. He took it as a joke apparently. 

“No? You don’t tell me,” he laughed. “Think she’s 
trying to smuggle in that stolen ruby? That’s a good 
one !” 

Charley blew a ring of smoke into the air. 

“Great!” he said. “Nice old crab — Morton Butler.” 

Mr. Jones’s attitude changed. 

“Butler!” he exclaimed. “Did he come over with 
her? His name wasn’t on the passenger list.” 

“Kept it off,” Charley stated. “ ’Fraid it would sink 
the ship.” 

Mr. Jones frowned. Then he became confidential. 
He leaned over and said: 

“It’s all rot, you know, about that ruby. Monkey 

shines! But ” he winked shrewdly — “there might 

be a little matter of lace. You know how women are? 


A TILT WITH THE LAW 


77 


I’ll hurry back and tell Norris to hot-foot it down there 
and square things.” He turned abruptly as if to go, 
and then reconsidered it. “By the way, the girl — Miss 
Norris — didn’t send any special word by you — or any- 
thing?” 

Mr. Teeters answered. 

“Only some candied fruit, but ” 

“Oh!” smiled Mr. Jones. “Candied fruit? Well, 
well! Is that the box?” 

“She asked us to keep it for her,” put in Charley. 

“Quite so,” said Mr. Jones affably, “but it’s possi- 
ble she won’t come here to the Rirebien, after all, and 
you’ve had bother enough. I’ll take it to Norris; that’s 
the best thing to do. He’ll see you later.” 

“You’re the doctor,” agreed Charley carelessly. 

Mr. Jones reached down and took possession of the 
box, nodding the while pleasantly at Mr. Teeters. 

“Wait!” entreated that gentleman. “Let me tell you 
something ” 

But Mr. Jones waved a hand at him, and without 
further words made off. 

Charley threw away his cigar and grinned at his com- 
panion. 

“What’s the difference, Skeet?” he remarked. “Plums 
is plums. Going up? Want to wash my hands. 
Sticky.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


DOUBLE CROSSED 

When Charley came out from his dressing-room into 
his sitting-room he was sporting a purple tie, brand 
new; and a silk handkerchief to match peeped from 
his pocket. Mr. Teeters observed these innovations with 
astonishment. Mr. Carter was painfully plain in his 
dress, to the secretary’s notion, who was given to star- 
tling effects in vesture. Even Broadway sat up when 
Mr. Teeters sallied forth to take the air. 

“Say, Come-On, you’re getting gay in your old age,” 
he jested. 

“Second childhood,” replied Mr. Carter equably, and 
tucked in the handkerchief a trifle. 

“Case of girl, you mean,” Mr. Teeters cackled noisily 
and, the telephone ringing, got up and answered it. He 
turned from it wide agape. “She’s downstairs in the 
parlor — Miss Norris,” he reported. 

“Alone?” queried Charley. 

“They didn’t say. Jerusalem crickets, but she made 
it quick!” 

Charley looked in the glass between the windows, and 
tucked in another corner of his handkerchief. 

“Let’s go down,” he said, and marched out. 

Miss Madeleine Norris was alone, and she beamed on 

78 


DOUBLE CROSSED 


79 


them as they walked into the little morning-room where 
she waited. This time she did not offer to kiss Mr. 
Carter. 

“You didn’t find papa, Charley, or you’d have come 
back,” was her greeting. “Awfully sorry to have to put 
you to so much trouble.” 

“Nothing at all,” Charley assured her. “How did you 
make out?” 

“They searched me,” Miss Norris told him. “I saw 
it was no use and got it over with. But I gave that 
horrid old man a talking-to he won’t forget. The idea, 
thinking I had his old ruby!” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Funny.” 

“Funny! I should say it was!” The young lady gig- 
gled delightedly. “But they weren’t even satisfied with 
that. Butler had me followed. It was so plain I had to 
laugh. And I gave them the slip. We got into a jam — 
somebody run over — and I just wriggled out of the cab 
and sent Agnes on to another hotel. They followed her 
and I came here.” 

It was such a jolly lark that the girl lay back in her 
chair and bubbled over with merriment. Mr. Teeters’s 
pale eyes rested on her admiringly. 

“Smooth work,” he applauded. “Hey, Come-On?” 

“Fine,” assented Charley. “Make the Major laugh.” 

Miss Norris nodded. She recovered her composure 
and observed: 

“I wonder what is keeping him? His wireless said he 
would surely be here to meet me.” 

“He sent word by Mr. Jones he’d skipped a cog — 
couldn’t get here for a while,” explained Mr. Teeters. 

Miss Norris stared at them. 

“Mr. Jones? Who is he?” 


80 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Don’t know,” said Charley. “Slim chap. Brown 
hair. Brown eyes. Quick footwork.” 

The lady smothered an exclamation. 

“This Mr. Jones — did he say where my father was?” 

“Didn’t mention it,” Charley answered. “Said he’d 
tell him. Send him down to you.” 

“Oh, he said that!” returned Miss Norris slowly. She 
stood up and shook out her gown with elaborate care. 
Charley and Mr. Teeters stood up also. Miss Norris 
continued: “I’ll leave a note for my father, I think, 
and go on and join Agnes. My box of candied fruit — 
will you please get it for me? It was absurd of me to 
burden you with it, Mr. Teeters. I was so excited ” 

She came to a pause as she looked into the secretary’s 
crestfallen face. 

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “Mr. Jones ” 

“Oh, I say — Miss Norris! By George!” 

It was Charley who cried out. The girl had collapsed 
into the chair she had just vacated. Charley ran to her 
and fanned her with his hat. She was chalk-white. 

“Creeping cats!” breathed Mr. Teeters, horrified. 
“What’s happened to her, Come-On?” He hopped from 
one foot to the other and wrung his hands. 

“Get some water!” Charley bade him tartly. 

Mr. Teeters started on a run for the door. And there 
he staggered back and turned a sickly green. For, burst- 
ing into the room, came Major Norris. He was a most 
unmilitary sight. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips were 
working loosely, and all the muscles of his face were 
a-tremble, like spooned-up jelly. How he had passed 
the scrutiny of the office without question of his sobriety 
was a wonder. 

“Madeleine!” he screamed. “Has he been here — 
Skelton >” 


DOUBLE CROSSED 


81 


The girl sat up straight and regarded her sire not 
with the joy of the reunited but with unfathomable 
scorn. Charley forgave this unfilial greeting, for the 
Major’s sorry plight warranted it. As for Mr. Teeters, 
he simply goggled at the pair; he was not, was Mr. Tee- 
ters, what might be called an emergency-man. 

“Be quiet!” was the fond salutation of Miss Norris to 
her parent. With an effort she rose to her feet and 
faced him. “Do you want to bring the house about our 
ears?” she asked fiercely. “And these gentlemen, what 
will they think?” 

“Don’t mind us,” spoke up Charley. “Shut the door, 
Percy. Lock it.” 

“Has Skelton been here?” the Major insisted, though 
in a lower key. 

“Yes,” replied Miss Norris, and looked at him coldly. 
“He’s made a fool of you.” 

“He doped me!” whimpered her father. “Doctored 
the wine. I suspected it — too late — and spilled most of 
it; but it did the trick for a time. He’s given us the 
double cross, blast him!” 

“Will you be quiet?” Miss Norris hurled this behest 
at him angrily. 

With a tremendous tax upon his will-power the Ma- 
jor called back his scattered wits. He straightened his 
shoulders, pushed out his chest and plucked at his im- 
perial; and he essayed a wan smile at Mr. Carter and 
Mr. Teeters. 

“By Heavens, boys, I’ve had an experience !” he mum- 
bled. “Shocking!” 

His daughter turned from contemplation of him to 
the young men with a gesture of contempt. 

“Don’t think he’s quite crazy,” she begged. “This 
Skelton — or Jones, as he called himself to you — had 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


business dealings with my father. I warned him against 
the man, but he wouldn’t listen, and now — well, we’ve 
got to find him, that’s all. We’ve got to !” 

“That box of candied fruit ” began Mr. Teeters. 

“Oh, it has nothing to do with it,” Miss Norris pro- 
tested with a strained smile. 

The Major seemed to have regained his grip on him- 
self. 

“Come,” he exclaimed, “we are wasting time. Skel- 
ton will jump a train for Denver. I think I know where 
we can catch him, though, before he makes his get- 
away — his start,” he amended hastily. “Will you go 
along, boys? He’ll fight, and we may need help.” 

“Yes — yes! Do come!” entreated the girl, who doubt- 
less felt that her father needed reenforcements. 

“Sure,” responded Charley blithely. He was the pet 
pupil of the celebrated Joseph Link, and the prospect 
of a set-to was alluring. Besides, he felt a liking for 
this fair young woman of moods and mystery. “Kept 
my car waiting,” he added. “Lucky.” 

They hurried silently down to the street, Mr. Teeters 
bringing up the rear. He was of a peaceable nature, 
and violence of any kind held no candle to his desires. 
He had nothing in the world against Mr. Jones — or 
whatever his name was — except a slight pique at his un- 
ceremonious methods, and had he consulted his own 
inclinations that gentleman could have gone to Denver, 
or a warmer place, without let or hindrance from him. 
But where Mr. Carter led, Mr. Teeters, in virtue of his 
office, felt constrained to follow, and he did so now with 
drear misgivings. 

Major Norris gave concise directions to Charley’s 
chaufifeur, and they whirled away from the Rirebien. 
A moment later a lake-blue limousine, hugging the curb 


DOUBLE CROSSED 


83 


a few yards farther to the west, started up and purred 
along at a discreet distance behind the yellow car. The 
occupants were in retirement, for the curtains were 
closely drawn, but an occasional wisp of smoke made its 
way into the outer air, and its aroma, could one have 
sniffed it, spoke of a weed of high degree — big and 
black and oily. 

The yellow car wheeled into Fifth Avenue and took 
a straight course down that thoroughfare; but at the 
intersection with Broadway at Twenty- third Street Char- 
ley gave a sharp command, and even before the brakes 
were set jumped out. He returned with a portly gen- 
tleman whom he had rounded up on the walk, and with 
whom he had exchanged a few earnest words. This 
was no other than Mr. Samuel Drew. By the merest 
chance Charley’s eye had singled him out on one of the 
busiest corners on the globe. 

Mr. Drew looked slightly perplexed, and Major Nor- 
ris looked more than slightly perturbed as he recog- 
nized him; but he concealed this expression instantly. 
Mr. Teeters, it may be mentioned, looked immensely re- 
lieved. He felt as if the aegis of the Law had been cast 
about him. 

“By George!” exulted Charley, after Mr. Drew had 
been presented to Miss Norris, “Luck, Major. Lawyers 
get you out of trouble as well as in. Ought to have one 
in every home.” 

He grinned expansively at this little joke, and winked 
at the lady sitting opposite him. But the point was ap- 
parently lost on her; her gaze was frowningly fixed on 
the passing throng. 

The yellow car went on, and the blue car, which had 
also stopped, took up its way again. At Washington 
Square Charley’s man swerved east, along Waverley 


84 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Place to Broadway and down to one of the lowest num- 
bered streets. A few blocks farther east the machine, 
at a signal from the Major, came to a stand. At the 
same time the limousine, a block behind, shied around 
a sheltering corner. 

When they were all out on the sidewalk Major Norris 
turned to Mr. Drew. He had evidently decided to make 
the best of that plump person’s unexpected addition to 
the party, for he said : 

“It is just as well you are along, sir. This fellow we 
are after is a desperate character, and the presence of 
the Law may serve to intimidate him.” 

“Eh? What’s that?” ejaculated the attorney, and 
his ruddy countenance lost a bit in coloring. “It’s a case 
for the police, then. Let us have one in.” 

He looked about him, but there was not a bluecoat in 
sight. Mr. Teeters also searched the horizon with an 
anxious eye. 

“No — no police,” decreed the Major. “We don’t want 
them mixing in with this. Skelton has a paper I wish 
to get, and a bluff may do it. The police would only 
queer things. We’ll rush his room and take him by 
surprise. If he shows his teeth ” 

“Leave him to me,” requested Mr. Carter with pleased 
anticipation. “Maybe I can keep him busy. Show us 
the house.” 

Major Norris piloted them half way down the block 
to a brick front with brownstone trimmings. It was 
warm and the street-door, as it chanced, stood open. 

“Now!” whispered the Major. 

The party charged the steps and were well up the 
stairs inside when a stridulous feminine voice hailed 
them from the back hall, growing nearer as the owner 
raced forward. 


DOUBLE CROSSED 


85 


“Here ! Who are you ? What do you want ?” 

The questions were fired at them with gatling velocity. 

“Shut up!” hissed Major Norris over the banisters. 
“That’s the door — right in front of you, Charley. 
Quick!” 

Charley sprang to it and tried the knob. There was 
no resistance, and he walked into the room. 

“Gone!” he shouted. 

The others filed in, and Major Norris closed the door. 
The voice below had ceased suddenly. 

“Ha!” yapped Mr. Teeters, whose spirits had risen 
from zero to a hundred above. “Fuzzy sort of coop the 
rooster left.” 

The room, in fact, betrayed the evidences of hasty 
flight. A hurricane might have swept through it from 
the appearance of things. Drawers were left hanging 
open in their grooves, odds and ends of clothing were 
scattered on bed and chairs, and the floor was a waste 
of old newspapers, burned matches, cigar-stumps and 
other immaterial flotsam that had been knocked down, 
upset and kicked aside in Mr. Skelton’s imperative need 
to absent himself. 

Miss Norris glanced around this expanse of desola- 
tion and her eyes came to rest on her father’s face. He 
moved away from her as if a dagger-thrust had been 
delivered at him. Then from between the girl’s pearly 
teeth shot a word startlingly incongruous in one so dain- 
tily fashioned — • 

“Bilked !” 

It was all she said, and she turned to go. But a cry 
from Mr. Teeters arrested her; he had been poking 
around in the corners. 

“Merry Moses! Here’s all that candied fruit!” 

Miss Norris darted back from the door, and the Ma- 


86 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


jor took a quick step forward. Mr. Drew looked help- 
lessly at Charley, but Charley was gravely watching Mr. 
Teeters. The latter had lifted a dilapidated wastebasket 
from the corner and was carrying it to the table near the 
chimney-piece. 

“Candied fruit?” questioned the lawyer. “Where 
does that fit in?” 

No one replied. Mr. Teeters dumped the contents 
of the basket on the table and regarded it ruefully. 

“What do you say to that, Come-On? You’d think it 
was poisoned, hey?” 

He fell back hurriedly from the table, for the Major, 
with a sort of snarl, had precipitated himself on the 
fruit and was clawing it over. 

“Upon my soul !” exclaimed Mr. Drew, amazed at the 
sight. 

And then Miss Norris gave a cry. She picked up the 
box cover and stuck it under her father’s nose. 

“Look at that! It’s not mine; mine was from Hay- 
den’s on the Strand.” 

“It’s the one Jones got from me,” offered Mr. Teeters 
quaveringly. “I bought it at Leroy’s; paid four bucks 
for it.” 

Major Norris drew a long breath and pulled at the 
tuft of hair on his chin. He was struggling to command 
himself. But Miss Norris addressed Mr. Teeters in 
honeyed tones. 

“Oh, I see,” she remarked. “My box is still at the 
hotel?” 

The Major bent forward eagerly to catch the answer. 
He was breathing hard. 

“No,” Charley explained for his unhappy secretary. 
“Percy spilled it in the car. Accident. Pitched it out. 
Bought another ” 


DOUBLE CROSSED 


37 


A burst of hysterical laughter stopped him. Miss 
Norris dropped on the tousled bed and rocked to and 
fro. Her hands were clasped to her breast, and her toe- 
tips beat a tattoo on the floor. 

“It’s the limit r she babbled. “The limit! The limit !” 
And she kept repeating the cry over and over again, 
laughing and weeping by turns. 

“My lord ! What does all this mean, Carter ?” de- 
manded Mr. Drew, pale with apprehension. 

Major Norris took upon himself the answer. 

“It means,” he bellowed, “that you couldn’t trust a 
bag of peanuts with that pop-eyed ass of a tailor’s dum- 
my over there. He’d lose it if you locked him up with 
it in a steel safe ten feet thick!” 

“I say!” twittered Mr. Teeters. “I didn’t go to do it. 
I ” 

“Bah!” sneered the Major, and strode over to his 
daughter. He laid an ungentle hand on her shoulder 
and shook it. 

“Leave off, you little fool!” he snapped. “Let us get 
out of this.” 

His touch seemed to rouse the girl to fury. She 
leaped from the bed and struck at him viciously. 

“You bungler!” she blazed. “You old doddering do- 
tard! You are to blame for this! Why didn’t you fol- 
low them to the ship? Why didn’t you keep an eye on 
them? I held my end up, but you ” 

An ecstasy of rage possessed her. She whirled around 
to the others and shrilled out: 

“Look at him ! Do for the love of Heaven look at this 
imitation man ! I just want you to know that he is not 
my ” 

But she did not finish. The door swung open and 
Morton Butler glowered on them from the threshold. 


88 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


He was alone. Physical fear was an emotion he had 
never known. He had risen from a brakeman, and he 
could still roughneck it when it suited him, as it did just 
now; for he was entering, as he believed, a den of 
thieves. 

“I thought so!” he growled as his eyes fell upon the 
table. He leveled a gnarled forefinger at Mr. Teeters, 
who shrank before it as if it were a pistol barrel. “It 
came to me after you had gone. And they let you pass, 
the blockheads!” He took a slow survey of the room. 
“I've caught you red-handed, it seems — the whole ca- 
boodle of you.” 

Miss Norris laughed — a mirthless laugh, it is true, yet 
not lacking in spirit. She was herself again. 

“You’ve caught a soap-bubble, that’s all, Mr. Morton 
Butler,” she mocked. “This pleasant gentleman with the 
high complexion is Mr. Samuel Drew, a respected mem- 
ber of the bar, and this — ” she flashed a challenging 
glance at Charley — “this is my father. The other two 
you have met before.” 

“You must remember me, Mr. Butler,” said the law- 
yer, coming forward. “I was for you with Amos Hoyle 
in the R. & L. merger, back in 1912.” 

He held out his hand. The old man took it casually, 
and dropped it. 

“I know you now,” he grunted. “What are you 
doing in this mess?” 

“The Lord knows,” responded Mr. Drew. Where- 
upon he related succinctly how he had been picked up 
by Mr. Carter, his client, and carried off in ignorance 
of his mission. 

“Charley, shall we go?” asked Miss Norris lightly. 
“I think we’ve had enough of this.” 

Mr. Butler moved away a step or two from the exit. 


DOUBLE CROSSED 


89 


“You’ll find a couple of men downstairs waiting for 
you,” he observed ironically. 

“Oh, in that case,” returned Miss Norris with a most 
en gaging smile, “we couldn’t think of leaving you — not 
until we have your kind permission.” 

She sat down with an air of meek resignation, and the 
Major hovered at her side. He appeared singularly mild 
and tractable. It seemed to be his sole desire to divert 
attention from himself. 

“Look here!” said Charley, approaching the lowering 
figure by the door, “you’re a business man. Get busy. 
What do you want?” 

Morton Butler let his cold gray eyes bore into the 
hazel ones that were fixed on him. Charley calmly stood 
the scrutiny. 

“Humph !” snorted the magnate. “What are you do- 
ing in this hole with those two crooks?” 

“Friends,” said Charley stoutly. “Came with them. 
Looking for a man — Jones. Skipped.” 

The other said nothing. It was his finger, pointed ob- 
durately at the table which asked a question. Charley 
answered it. 

“Bought that at Leroy’s. Gave it to Jones to take to 
Major Norris. Didn’t do it, and we found it here.” 

“And the first box — the one on the ship?” Mr. Butler’s 
voice rang out sharp and stern. 

“I fell down with it,” piped Mr. Teeters tremulously. 
“My foot slipped.” 

“Spilled it in my car,” added Mr. Carter. “Threw 
it in the street as we went uptown. Bought another 
box for the lady.” 

The big man looked a full half minute into Charley’s 
eyes. 

“Good heavens!” he groaned suddenly. “The ruby 


90 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


is lost beyond recall — crushed or swept up and carted 
off!” 

“Ah! So that’s it?” Mr. Drew, who had been putting 
two and two together, was enlightened all at once. “The 
ruby, you think, was brought in tucked away in a candied 
fruit?” 

“How ridiculous!” murmured Miss Norris. “And not 
a bit of proof.” 

Morton Butler found a chair and sat down. He looked 
less forceful than when he entered. 

“I’d give twice the reward I offered to get that ruby 
back,” he said weariedly. “There’s not one like it above 
ground. And — ’” he glared at the girl — “I’d give twice 
ten thousand dollars to jail the thieves.” 

Miss Norris made a clucking noise with her tongue. 
She was like a little bantam which by some miracle of 
good luck has put to flight a hawk. 

“Poor man!” she sighed. “It’s hard — very. Would 
you mind now if we went away? We are pressed for 
time, really. Charley, won’t you please call up those 
men? Perhaps Mr. Butler will be good enough to tell 
them not to annoy us.” 

The old gentleman motioned an indifferent assent — 
as if nothing mattered now — and Charley called up the 
men. They were Secret Service agents. The railroad 
magnate spoke a word to them, and they reluctantly stood 
aside for Miss Norris to pass. 

“You’re not coming, Charley?” she questioned plain- 
tively. “Well, I can hardly blame you — such pleasant 
company.” For a fleeting instant she caught the boy’s 
eye. Perhaps she read a warning in it, for she delayed 
no longer. 

“Good-by, all !” she called out gaily, and tripped from 
the room. The Major followed closely. He was al- 


DOUBLE CROSSED 


91 


ready beginning to straighten up and push out his chest. 

Charley stepped over to the door and pulled it to, 
shutting in with him the detectives. Then he addressed 
the despairing jewel-fancier. 

“Doubled that reward, you said. Mean it? Fifty 
thousand ?” 

The old man looked at his questioner dully. 

“Fifty thousand,” he rasped. “And twenty for the 
thieves.” 

Charley waved this latter statement aside. 

“Hear that, Mr. Drew? Fifty thousand for Brah- 
ma's Eye. Witness?” 

“Yes ! Yes !” exclaimed the lawyer. He was gazing 
at Mr. Carter with strained attention. He seemed now 
to sense the denouement of this drama in which he had 
played an unintelligible part. 

“All right,” said Charley coolly. “I can tell you, Mr. 
Butler, where your ruby is. Got to promise, though, 
that nobody shall leave the room for thirty minutes. A 
go?” 

The great man raised his head with sudden hope, and 
his voice shook a little as he replied. This ruby was to 
his collector’s pride what an only child is to its mother. 

“I promise,” he said. “Tell me.” 

Charley drew the purple silk handkerchief from his 
pocket and threw the corners apart, and there, exposed 
on his extended palm, lay the wondrous stone — a glow- 
ing, glorious, lucent eye of marvelous sunset hue. 

“Gollamighty !” squealed Mr. Teeters. “They were 
conning us all the time!” 

“Found it in a plum — big one — when I was chucking 
out that candied fruit,” stated Charley. “Had an idea 
I’d run across it. Wanted to see what the girl would 
do. Fun.” 


92 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


A gasp of delight had issued from Morton Butler’s 
lips, and now he reached out ravenously for the gem. 
He was oblivious of all else. 

One of the Secret Service men moved softly to the 
door. 

“Hold up !” Charley cautioned him. “Thirty minutes.” 
“But the girl?” frowned the man. 

“Good little sport. Plucky. Give her a fair start.” 
“Boy !” cried out Mr. Drew. “You are letting twenty 
thousand dollars slip through your fingers. It would 
make you, all told, a hundred thousand to the good. 
Have you thought of that?” 

There was a bare five seconds of silence in the room. 
Then — 

“Sure,” said Charley. 


CHAPTER IX 


LORD LYNHAM COMES TO TOWN 

Mr. Percival Teeters was practicing French caroms in 
the billiard room of the Hotel Rirebien. It was not 
long after breakfast and he had the place practically 
to himself. Mr. Teeters was something of a wizard 
with the cue, and more than once had conjured dollars 
with it from others’ pockets into his own. To do this 
he had to keep his hand in, hence the early morning 
drill. As he now made a neat round-the-table shot some 
one spoke — some one who had come in quietly from the 
bar and approached the table. 

“By Jove, clever!” 

The speaker pronounced it “clevah,” and Mr. Teeters 
looked at him. He was a young man, possible thirty-two 
or three. He was exceedingly well put together, and 
carried himself with an air of assurance that betokened 
one who knew his way about; and he was arrayed in a 
fashion that commended itself to the secretary’s fancy. 

“Not so slow,” Mr. Teeters acknowledged graciously. 
“Like to shoot a few?” 

The other laughed. 

“Oh, dear, no ! I’m not in your class, really. But I 
know good billiards when I see ’em. That shot now — 
the way you’ve left ’em — how about it? Cannon on 
the red. What ?” 

“Cannon ?” echoed Mr. Teeters, puzzled. 


94 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Again the young man laughed. 

“Oh, yes, to be sure. I believe you call it carom over 
here. On the red — what?” 

Mr. Teeters shook his head indulgently. 

“White,” he said. “Dollar I score.” 

The young man smiled and laid a paper dollar on 
the rail. Mr. Teeters covered it with two halves and 
then, in the act of drawing back his cue, he paused in 
open wonder. 

With a dexterous twist of the wrist the stranger had 
flipped a monocle on its silken ribbon into the grasp of 
finger and thumb and screwed it in his eye. Through 
this glistening lens he was attentively surveying the lay 
of the balls and waiting for Mr. Teeters to make his 
stroke. The proceeding was novel to that gentleman’s 
experience, and it fascinated him. He hesitated a fatal 
second longer — and missed! And it was a perfectly 
simple shot! 

“What do you know about that?” he cried. “A one- 
armed baby could make it lying on his back.” 

He threw down his cue in disgust, and stared again 
at the stranger. The latter, with a scarcely perceptible 
lifting of his brow, had released the glass and it was 
now dangling on his waistcoat. Mr. Teeters, to repeat, 
had never before seen anything like this. It impressed 
and it subdued him ; there was something so prodigiously 
swell about it. 

“I’m afraid I put you out,” apologized the strange 
young man. “You could make it, of course.” He gath- 
ered up the stakes and added: “Pray let me offer you 
atonement. I’m a bit seedy this morning — out last night 
and all that sort of thing — and a peg of Scotch would 
set me up, I fancy. How about yourself?” 

He had a way of speaking that was winning, and Mr. 


LORD LYNHAM COMES TO TOWN 


95 


Teeters warmed to him despite his loss. Here, he felt, 
was a personage worth cultivating; his clothes alone 
were a passport to any one’s esteem. He accepted the 
invitation with the elegant nonchalance the occasion 
seemed to warrant. 

“Thanks. Can’t go the heavy wet this time of day, 
but I don’t mind lapping up a dish of suds.” 

“Righto!” cheerfully acquiesced the other, and held 
out his hand. “My name is Harry Lynham.” He smiled 
whimsically. “Viscount Lynham they call me at home. 
My father is the Earl of Eversole.” 

Mr. Teeters took the extended hand and breathed 
hard. He had heard of English lords, but had never 
expected to behold a real live one. 

“My name,” he mumbled, “is Teeters — Percival 
Teeters.” 

“Teeters?” questioned Lord Harry Lynham eagerly. 
“Not by any happy chance the friend and companion of 
Mr. Charles Arthur Carter? Eh?” 

“I’m it,” confessed Mr. Teeters, flattered to find him- 
self in such renown. 

“My dear fellow! I say, I’m charmed, you know!” 
exclaimed his lordship. “I’ve read a lot about you and 
Mr. Carter. That Brahma’s Eye affair. What? Most 
extraordinary.” 

This word the Englishman pronounced “extrornery,” 
and Mr. Teeters made a mental note of it. To be a 
swell, one must talk as well as look the part. 

“Slick little job,” he admitted. “A con man has got to 
step up to keep ahead of me and Charley. Got to foot 
it pretty swift.” 

“He jolly well has to, I should say,” laughed the Vis- 
count, leading off to the bar. “You can tell a ruby from 
a hen’s egg. What?” 


96 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Watch me,” Mr. Teeters adjured him. “They can 
slip one over on me just as easy as pulling whale’s teeth.” 

“Just about,” chuckled Lord Lynham. “Sleep with 
one eye open, eh?” He selected a quiet corner and sat 
down, motioning Mr. Teeters to do likewise. “This,” 
he observed, “is what I call a right bit of luck, old 
chap — really. I’ve wanted to know you and Mr. Carter. 
Interesting people are deuced scarce these days.” 

Mr. Teeters expanded his narrow chest and wiggled 
his mustache under stress of the pleasurable emotions 
which assailed him. 

“Say,” he begged, “wait a minute and I’ll get Charley. 
He’s just as interesting as I am.” 

He scuttled out of the room, swollen with importance. 
Viscount Lynham watched him go in the mirror opposite 
his seat, and then lighted a cigarette and blew rings at 
his own reflection in the glass. 

When Mr. Teeters returned with his chief a man was 
standing at the table talking to Lord Lynham. His atti- 
tude was deferential, in fact, obsequious. Lord Lynham 
looked plainly bored. Charley checked Mr. Teeters, and 
they hung back near the door. The conversation reached 
them nevertheless, and they listened with ears a-prick. 

“Fifty thousand dollars, my lord,” the man was say- 
ing, “would give you a handsome profit on that painting.” 

“But I don’t care to sell,” Lord Lynham answered 
patiently. 

“Would your lordship consider sixty thousand?” asked 
the man. 

“No!” 

Mr. Teeters nudged Charley. 

“Get that?” he whispered. “Big potato?” 

“I happen to know, if you will pardon me, my lord. 


LORD LYNHAM COMES TO TOWN 


97 


that you paid only thirty-seven thousand,” persisted the 
man. 

The Viscount made an impatient movement, and his 
tone was mocking when he replied. 

“Really? I fancied that was a secret and, d’ye know, 
I rather think it is in spite of your assurance. No doubt 
you have private information of the price I paid for the 
Meissonnier, and the Rembrandt, and the others. Eh?” 

“My lord,” rejoined the other mildly, “I am concerned 
only with this Corot at present. Judge Hewlett has com- 
missioned me to offer you •” 

“Oh, confound your Judge Hewlett!” broke in Lyn- 

ham fretfully. “I tell you, my good fellow ” He 

stopped short, for he had caught a glimpse, it seemed, of 
Mr. Teeters and Charley. 

“Come right over, gentlemen,” he called out, and 
arose to welcome them. 

“I say,” said Charley, when his secretary had intro- 
duced him. “Don’t want to butt in. Business first. 
Pleasure afterwards.” 

“Pray sit down,” Lord Lynham entreated him. “It is 
not business, this affair — it’s a bally bore. You’ve come 
in the nick of time, my dear chap.” He turned to the 
man, who was tenaciously, though respectfully, holding 
his ground. “Mr. ah ” 

“Hopkins,” supplied that person. 

Lord Lynham placed his glass in his eye and inspected 
Mr. Hopkins much as he might have some strange crea- 
ture in the Zoo. A little shudder of admiration swept 
over Mr. Teeters as he witnessed it. 

“My good Mr. Hopkins,” said his lordship with quiet 
irony, “you and your sixty thousand dollars may go to 
the devil for all of me. This is final, you understand— 
quite so. Now if you will do me the favor of leaving me 


98 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


to the enjoyment of my friends I will endeavor to cher- 
ish no hard feelings for you.” 

“In that case, my lord,” returned Mr. Hopkins, suave 
as ever, “there is nothing left for me to do but go.” 

And he went. 

Mr. Teeters gazed with frank homage at his new- 
found friend. 

“Merry Moses!” he ejaculated. “If I could hand out 
the frozen mitt like that I’d run for president of the 
Ice Trust. Hey, Come-On?” 

“Smooth,” said Charley absently. He was intently 
watching Lord Lynham. When that titled gentleman 
winked the monocle out of his eye Charley exhaled a 
long and pleasurable breath. 

“That bounder Hopkins gets on my nerves,” com- 
plained the Viscount, half humorously. “Do either of 
you, by the way, happen to go in for oils ?” 

“What kind?” asked Mr. Teeters. “There’s hair-oil, 
olive-oil and Standard Oil.” 

He was quite in earnest, and Lord Lynham answered 
him with equal gravity. 

“We’re talking at odds, old chap. I mean oil-paint- 
ings, like that hanging over the bar there.” 

“Ha! That nood stuff?” Mr. Teeters cackled play- 
fully. “Oh, I guess yes ; we go in for oils all right.” 

“Sure,” grinned Charley. “Know a lot about art. 
Much as knitting baby-socks.” 

“Ah, yes, to be sure,” said Lynham, nodding appre- 
ciation of the joke. “Other interests, of course. Well, 
for myself, I run a bit to art — something of a sharp at 
it, they tell me — and I’ve managed to pick up several 
rare pictures over here at a bargain. This fellow Hop- 
kins seems to have learned about it, and he’s been 
hounding me to sell ’em. He’s an agent, as I under- 


LORD LYNHAM COMES TO TOWN 


99 


stand it, for some of your multimillionaires. If I 
had listened to him I suppose I could have cleaned up 
eighty thousand dollars on the lot.” 

“Why not?” commented Charley. “It’s a roll.” Lack- 
ing a few hundreds, eighty thousand dollars was, in fact, 
the exact size of Mr. Carter’s own especial roll. 

“Oh, it’s quite a handful, yes,” acknowledged his lord- 
ship easily. “But these pictures were for my governor, 
you know. I shipped them home yesterday to Eversole 
Castle.” He smote his knee in ludicrous dismay. “Dash 
it all, why didn’t I tell Hopkins that and shut his wind 
off for good? I’m a bally ass! What?” He laughed 
wryly at his stupid oversight, and changed the subject to 
the more convivial one of Scotch. 

And thus, in the most natural way in the world, be- 
gan Mr. Carter’s acquaintance with a delightfully demo- 
cratic nobleman. 


CHAPTER X 


“the lady of the loggia” 

Mr. Teeters placed his hand over the telephone trans- 
mitter and looked mysterious. Mr. Carter, peeping out 
into the sitting-room from his bedroom door, was tom 
between native modesty and the desire for information; 
for he was in his birthday suit, having stepped trick- 
ling from his bath at the secretary’s hail. Mr. Carter’s 
bathing-hour, it should be explained, was noon — imme- 
diately at the conclusion of the daily bout with his box- 
ing-master, Mr. Joseph Link. 

“It’s a lady, Come-On,” proclaimed Mr. Teeters. “If 
she looks like her voice she’s got wings.” 

Charley’s eyes kindled. 

“Say! By George!” he whispered with unnecessary 
caution. “Hold her, Skeeters ” 

“I wish I could!” interjected Mr. Teeters fervidly. 

“Be there in a jiffy,” finished Mr. Carter. “Get her 
name.” 

He disappeared, and Mr. Teeters addressed himself 
to the fair one at the other end of the wire. When Mr. 
Carter, attired in slippers and bathrobe, came sprinting 
through the door not thirty seconds later — which cer- 
tainly was well within a jiffy — Mr. Teeters was arising 
from the telephone. There was an air of repressed ex- 
citement about him. 

“It’s all over,” he announced. 

100 


“THE LADY OF THE LOGGIA ” 


101 


“Did they cut you off?” Charley’s disappointment was 
manifest. 

Mr. Teeters wagged his head from side to side in 
scornful dissent. 

“Cut nothing off! It’s all signed, sealed and settled.” 

Mr. Carter stared at his secretary. 

“What do you mean?” he demanded. 

“Mean?” retorted Mr. Teeters. “Why you and me 
are going round to Tortoni’s tea-rooms on the Avenue 
and ask for Miss Vera Kingsley. She wants to talk 
about a picture to us — an ‘oil.’ Ha, ha!” Mr. Teeters 
simulated mirth with the engaging expression of a man 
with the toothache. “She must have seen us with Harry 
Lynham.” 

“Miss Vera Kingsley?” questioned Charley, non- 
plussed. “Who is she?” 

“The girl on the ’phone,” returned Mr. Teeters. “I 
asked her name, and that’s what she handed me. Said 
she’d look for us at one o’clock — and rang off with me 
sitting there like a clam frozen in the mud. Extrornery ! 
What?” 

“Gee!” said Charley. “And it’s half-past twelve!” 

He leaped back into his bedroom. Mr. Teeters heard 
him pulling out drawers and slamming them shut, and 
giving other indications of a hurried toilet. He there- 
upon resumed, a little hurriedly himself, a certain under- 
taking in which he was secretly engaged when the tele- 
phone interrupted. 

Going over to the mirror between the windows, Mr. 
Teeters drew from its concealment beneath his vest a 
single-barreled eyeglass which hung about his neck by 
a cord. This glass, with a series of horrible grimaces, 
he attempted to fit to his right eye ; but the trick some- 
how escaped him. 


102 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Try as he would, over and over again, the monocle 
refused to stick, and the reluctant conclusion was forced 
upon him that a fellow must be born to that sort of 
thing, as to a harelip or a wart on the nose. With a 
petulant exclamation he snapped the cord and hurled the 
glass out of the window just as Charley dashed in, ready 
for the street. 

“Got to leg it, Skeet,” he cried. “Throw in your 
clutch.” 

Mr. Teeters, a cherished dream brought to naught, 
answered morosely as they stepped it off for the elevator. 
“I got a creepy feeling, Come-On; like something’s go- 
ing to happen.” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Girl. Lots can happen.” 

The hour was not a fashionable one at Tortoni’s, and 
Mr. Carter and his secretary found the place a desert 
of empty tables. But a demure little maid in a bewitch- 
ing apron conducted them to a small room off to one 
side where sat the lady at whose unconventional behest 
they were come. 

She regarded them steadily from a pair of blue-green 
eyes. They were like lucent beryl, and Charley thrilled 
as he looked into them. 

“This is kind of you,” she said simply, and with a 
grave smile. 

“Glad I’m here,” responded Charley earnestly; and 
Mr. Teeters mumbled something intended to express his 
own delight at finding himself present. 

He had, in fact, passed instantly under the spell of the 
girl’s beauty. She was tall and splendidly rounded. Her 
features were like chiseled marble, and her hair might 
have been spun from the red gold of Ophir. Add to this 
the manner of a princess holding court, and you had all 


“ THE LADY OF THE LOGGIA ” 


103 


the concomitants of an acute attack of heart-trouble 
for any man less than monk and more than monkey. 

“You are not strangers to me by sight/’ Miss Kings- 
ley informed them when they were seated. “You have 
been pointed out to me on several occasions, the last time 
when you were in company with Lord Lynham. But 
may I not pour you some tea, Mr. Carter — and you, 
Mr. Teeters?” 

There was a tiny samovar before her, and the fash- 
ionable tools pertaining to it. 

“Thanks,” said Charley. “Good drink, tea.” 

“I was weaned on it,” stated Mr. Teeters, coming out 
of his trance in a burst of lightsome humor. 

Miss Kingsley rewarded him with a low laugh, like the 
tinkle of silver bells, and busied herself with the cups 
and saucers. 

“It is because you are friends of Lord Lynham,” she 
explained, “that I ventured to request this interview. 
It is unusual, but — ” she let her wonderful eyes rest 
briefly on each in turn — “necessity knows no law, they 
say, and I’m sure you will forgive me when I have put 
my case.” 

“Sure thing,” said Charley with a warmth of emphasis. 

Mr. Teeters nodded a vigorous assent to this. 

“I’d forgive you murder,” he asserted. 

Miss Kingsley laughed again. 

“If you would go to that extreme I have nothing to 
fear. I simply want you to help me sell a picture to 
Viscount Lynham.” 

“Oh, that’s it!” said Charley, and looked at Mr. 
Teeters. 

“Is it — is it asking too much?” questioned the girl. 
The laughter died in her eyes, and the shadow of anxiety 
clouded them. 


104 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“What about it, Come-On?” demanded Mr. Teeters. 
“Can we do it ? Harry says he’s played his string in this 
picture game. Shot his wad — broke,” he interpreted for 
Miss Kingsley’s benefit. 

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed incredulously. “Why, his 
father, as everybody knows, is the richest peer in Eng- 
land!” 

“Guess he’s picture broke,” ventured Charley. “Gone 
his limit.” 

“But this is a Titian !” cried Vera Kingsley, as if the 
statement of itself must sweep aside all objections. 

“Ha! A Tishern!” echoed Mr. Teeters, frowning 
wisely. 

“Yes. It is my mother’s. Her father brought it to 
this country with him. It is a marvelous example of the 
master’s art! Lord Lynham would surely buy it if he 
could be induced to see it. But he won’t listen to me. 
I have written to him twice, and he hasn’t answered. He 
thinks, no doubt, that it’s a copy — a spurious work — 
and won’t waste his time on it.” 

“Too bad,” sympathized Charley. 

“We need the money — mother and I — desperately!” 
faltered the girl. “I — I thought that perhaps if I told 
you just how it was you might arrange for me to see 
Lord Lynham, if — if you would be so good?” 

She bent toward Charley with a little supplicating ges- 
ture that made a lump rise in his throat. He gulped it 
down, and jumped up from his chair with an energy 
that overturned it. 

“That’s the trick!” he declared. “Percy, get a cab. 
Come on, Miss Kingsley! Hotel Spenditt. Tackle 
Harry. Make him take a look.” 

Miss Kingsley veiled her eyes. There was a light in 
them she would not have him see. But she thanked him, 


“ THE LADY OF THE LOGGIA ” 


105 


and with a catch in her voice that made Charley gulp 
again. All womankind appealed to him, but a beauty in 
distress completely bowled him over. 

Lord Lynham fortunately was in, and came down to 
them in the drawing-room of the Spenditt. He greeted 
Charley and Mr. Teeters with his usual good fellowship, 
but when Miss Kingsley was presented his manner grew 
distinctly formal. Her beauty did not appear to im- 
press him in the least. 

“Oh, yes,” he remarked in a casual way. “I believe 
— eh ? — that I’ve had the honor of receiving several notes 
from you, Miss Kingsley.” 

“To which,” returned the girl spiritedly, “I have not 
had the honor of a reply, Lord Lynham.” 

His lordship shrugged, and twirled his monocle care- 
lessly on his finger. 

“I regret to say that I was not interested,” he rejoined. 

“But, Harry,” interposed Mr. Teeters, “she’s got a — 

a What did you say it was?” he asked Miss 

Kingsley. 

“Tish something,” prompted Charley. 

Lynham lost his hold on his glass, and seemed to have 
difficulty in finding it.” 

“It is a Titian, Lord Lynham,” said the young woman, 
directing her words to that nobleman in what one might 
have fancied was almost a tone of rebuke. “It has been 
in our family over fifty years.” 

“Eh? What? Oh, to be sure! You mentioned that in 
your communications to me,” said the Viscount. “But 
come now; a real Titian? Oh, I say! All the Titians 
on this side are accounted for. Outside the galleries 
there are but two.” 

“Ours,” the young woman answered him steadily, “is 
the third. There are not a dozen persons who know of 


106 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


it.” She hesitated, then added, “We — my mother and 
myself — have lived in retirement since my father’s death ; 
and — we are poor, Lord Lynham!” 

She turned away, and Charley spoke up quickly: 

“There you are, Harry. Trouble. Got to sell. Lots 
of people in the same boat.” 

“Millions!” put in Mr. Teeters. “And you can’t sail 
your skiff without a bag or two of ballast. Let’s have a 
squint at this Tishern, Harry.” 

The Englishman hesitated still. 

“What does she want for it?” he asked. “She hasn’t 
named the price.” 

“When you have seen it, my lord, will be time enough 
for that,” the girl made answer over her shoulder. 

“Ha! Depends on the size,” observed Mr. Teeters. “A 
big house costs more than a little one.” 

“Oh, well, I suppose I’d better go — it’s the easiest 
way,” conceded his lordship with a resigned air. “But 
I’ll lay you two to one in tens, Charley, that we flush a 
mare’s nest.” 

“Sir !” Miss Kingsley had wheeled and was haughtily 
regarding the nobleman. 

“Eh ? Oh, I beg pardon ! Undoubtedly you believe in 
the picture,” he told her, and he bowed his apology 
further. 

It was like a scene from a well-acted play — the beau- 
tiful heroine spurning the polished villain. Charley looked 
at both of them; it was a quick glance from one to 
the other out of inscrutable hazel eyes. Then he said 
quietly : 

“I take that bet, Harry. Come on down. I sent for a 

a 

car. 

He led the way, and there was the ghost of a grin 
hovering on his lips as he punched the elevator call-bell. 


“THE LADY OF THE LOGGIA” 


107 


When they were seated in the big touring-car and rolling 
away from the Spenditt, Charley spoke again. 

“Say, Harry,” he remarked. “Bet you buy the picture. 
Hundred even.” 

“Done!” laughed Lynham. “And you might as well 
pay up now, old top. Haven’t I told you that I’m stone 
broke ?” 

Miss Vera Kingsley maintained a cold reserve, and 
yet, could one have seen, there was a satisfied look in 
her green-blue eyes. 

The house was in the neighborhood of Stuyvesant 
Square. It was a relic of a forgotten residential era, 
and had fallen into such a sorry state of decayed gen- 
tility that if it could it would, no doubt, have been 
ashamed of itself. “Rooms to Rent” seemed to be a 
chronic ailment with it, for a rusty tin sign with the 
dreary words was permanently attached to the bricks 
near the door. 

Miss Kingsley made no apology for this dismal estab- 
lishment as they drove up to it. She conducted the party 
into the front parlor, and introduced them to her mother. 

“We are reduced,” succinctly stated this good lady. 
“Ruined by a bank failure.” Thereupon she lapsed into 
a stony silence. 

“This is the picture,” said Miss Kingsley, coming at 
once to the matter in hand. 

She indicated a canvas hanging in a corner near the 
door. It was the portrait of a woman. She was seated 
in a Venetian balcony which permitted a glimpse of a 
sheet of water with several misty buildings in the dis- 
tance. It was assuredly very old, if a general murkiness 
of tone counted for anything. The light on the paint- 
ing was execrable, but Lord Lynham made no comment. 
He went over and stood before it, his glass in his eye. 


108 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Charley and Mr. Teeters ranged themselves behind him. 
Miss Kingsley remained aloof. She was watching them. 
Once she withdrew her eyes and glanced at her mother, 
nodding to her ever so slightly. 

“Dandy frame, Come-On, ,, remarked Mr. Teeters. 

“Bully,” agreed Mr. Carter. 

“The frame, of course, is recent,” observed Miss 
Kingsley; and she said it gravely. 

Lord Lynham faced about. He seemed to be stirred 
from his usual self-command. 

“Eh, I say, boys! Come over here by the window, 
will you?” he requested. And when they had followed 
him he said, lowering his voice to a whisper : “My word, 
but I believe the girl is right! I’m rather well up in 
these things, and it’s a Titian or I don’t know A from 
Izzard. Most extraordinary thing I’ve ever met with — a 
Titian hanging here in this beastly hole !” 

Mr. Teeters gave tongue to the triumph that pos- 
sessed him. 

“Ha! I knew she wasn’t pulling any guess stuff on 
us !” 

Charley’s hand was in his pocket. He jingled the 
loose change there — almost suggestively, it might have 
been imagined — and inquired, “Going to buy it, Harry?” 

Viscount Lynham looked worried. 

“If I can manage it. I’ve sunk a good bit, you know, 
in pictures lately. I’ll find out what her figure is.” 

He crossed over to Miss Kingsley, who was now 
standing by her mother’s chair. 

“I tender my apologies,” he said to her quietly. “It 
is a Titian, if I am any judge. The question resolves 
itself simply to one of price. If it is within reason ” 

“One hundred and fifty thousand dollars is the price, 


“THE LADY OF THE LOGGIA ” 


109 


my lord.” Miss Kingsley named the amount with care- 
ful distinctness. 

“Cash!” supplemented her mother with equal clear- 
ness, and lapsed again to stone. 

“Gollamighty !” squeaked Mr. Teeters. “It ain’t much 
bigger than a door-mat!” 

“Drop it, Teet!” chided Mr. Carter, who was intent 
upon the proceedings. 

“You know, my dear fellow,” explained Lord Lyn- 
ham tolerantly to the secretary, “they don’t sell old 
masters by the square foot. And this is a Titian, the 
greatest of them all! Now that Miss Kingsley has set 
the price, I don’t mind saying it’s not beyond the mark. 
Suppose — ” he addressed the young woman — “you give 
me an option on the picture until this time to-morrow. 
What?” 

“For a thousand dollars, my lord,” replied Miss Kings- 
ley with a chilly smile. 

“Cash!” came from the elder lady like a pistol shot. 
“I don’t trust banks.” 

“Eh ? Oh, by all means, if you insist,” returned Lord 
Lynham, casting an amused glance at Charley. 

He drew from an inner pocket a bill-book, and counted 
from it ten notes of one hundred dollars each. These 
he handed over to Mrs. Kingsley. 

“I think you will find the amount correct,” he said. 
“Mr. Carter, Mr. Teeters, be so good as to witness that 
I have secured an option on this Titian until to-morrow 
at — er — ” he consulted his watch — “half after two 
o’clock.” 

Hardly had he pronounced the words when a knock 
was given at the door. Miss Kingsley opened to it, and 
Mr. Hopkins entered. With him was an elderly gentle- 
man of a scholarly appearance, gray-haired and gray- 


110 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


bearded. Lord Lynham raised his monocle and stared 
at him. 

“By Jove — Hendricks !” he cried, and he went up to 
this person and grasped his hand. “The one man of 
all others I would wish to see! The Titian, of course! 
But how did you wind it?” 

“My lord,” put in Mr. Hopkins, turning from Miss 
Kingsley, with whom he had interchanged a rapid word, 
“this lady wrote to me some days ago, but the letter mis- 
carried and reached me only this morning. I went to 
Mr. Hendricks with it. His interest was immediately 
aroused, and he has come with me to pass on the pic- 
ture.” 

“You will recall, my Lord Lynham, that I failed to 
draw an answer from you,” the girl reminded him with 
mockery in her tone. 

“Gad! I was a bally ass!” confessed his lordship. 
“Charley, Percy, come over here! Mrs. Kingsley, let 
me present to you Mr. George Hendricks, Director of 
the Manhattan Art Museum. And, Hendricks, these are 
my two best friends in America — Mr. Charles Arthur 
Carter and Mr. Percival Teeters. You’ve heard of them 
— that ruby business — Brahma’s Eye? Eh?” 

“All New York has heard of that,” declared the Di- 
rector. “Exceedingly clever work, young gentlemen.” 

“Oh, nothing to brag about,” stated Mr. Teeters bland- 
ly. “These con men can’t get our mush. I can spot ’em 
every time.” 

“Got a little bird that whispers in his ear,” said Char- 
ley, grinning. 

He winked at Miss Kingsley. Mr. Hendricks laughed, 
then grew serious. 

“But where’s the Titian?” he demanded. “Ah!” 

He bustled over to Mr. Hopkins, who was standing 


“THE LADY OF THE LOGGIA” 


111 


before the painting with a rapt look on his face. Lord 
Lynham drew Charley and Mr. Teeters to the spot. 

“Mr. Hendricks,’’ said the picture-agent, visibly agi- 
tated, “don’t tell me I’m mistaken! I’d be willing to 
swear it’s genuine.” 

The Director of the Manhattan Art Museum lifted 
with deliberation from their case a pair of gold-rimmed 
spectacles and hung them over his ears. The bad light 
on the canvas seemed to trouble him as little as it had 
Lord Lynham. He took a step forward, shaded his eyes 
with his hands, and then stood stock still. Suddenly he 
cried out in ecstasy — 

“Why, good heavens, Lynham, this is the lost Titian 
we’ve been trying to locate for years — ‘The Lady of the 
Loggia’ !” 

His excitement infected Mr. Teeters, who wiggled 
his mustache and goggled at the masterpiece. 

“Merry Moses!” he piped. “Hear th^t?” 

“Gee!” said Mr. Carter. 

“Hendricks! It’s Titian’s — yo^ are sure?” Lord Lyn- 
ham shot the question at the expert. 

“Sure?” shouted that personage in derision. “Am I 
sure of my own name? No brush but Titian’s could 
have painted this. Such coloring! Such harmony of 
tone ! Such certainty of touch ! Such richness of — er — 
ah — idealism!” He sprang close up to the picture and 
peered in the corners. “Ah! Here’s his ‘fecit’ — his 
mark !” 

With this he spun around on his heel, and leaped across 
the space intervening between himself and the ladies. 

“I request an option on this painting till I can con- 
sult my board,” he panted. 

Mr. Hopkins’s manners dropped from him as if they 
had been tied on with rotten thread. He leaped after 


112 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


the Director, pushed him aside and thrust an enormous 
roll of bills at Mrs. Kingsley. 

“Money talks !” he clamored. “Ten thousand dollars 
for the option till Saturday — three days!” 

“Mrs. Kingsley,” pleaded the Director, “civic pride 
should dictate a preference for the Art Museum. And 
I can safely promise you two hundred and fifty thousand 
dollars for this Titian!” 

“Bah!” barked Mr. Hopkins. “Senator Park — you 
know him, the Soap King — will give three hundred 
thousand. Here’s ten that says so!” 

“Gentlemen !” 

Vera Kingsley’s voice rang out imperiously, and the 
tumult ceased. 

“I say, you chaps,” spoke up Lord Lynham lazily. 
“You are making a deuced row, you know, over a dead 
dog. I happen to hold the option on this painting my- 
self.” 

A moan escaped Mrs. Kingsley. 

“We’ve given it away, Vera!” she whimpered. 

“Don’t !” The girl rebuked her irritably. “It can’t be 
helped now.” 

The picture-agent looked suspiciously at the Viscount. 

“Another bargain !” was his mournful comment. “You 
are lucky, my lord. But my offer stands — three hun- 
dred thousand, cash down. Senator Park returns on 
Saturday. I will call on you then.” 

He made a disconsolate bow to the ladies and walked 
out. 

“I’ll go him, Lynham, hang me if I don’t!” snapped 
Mr. Hendricks. “My board will stand behind me. Three 
hundred thousand! And it’s for a public institution, 
don’t forget that — for the people!” 

“If I decide to sell, I’ll let you hear from me, old 


“THE LADY OF THE LOGGIA” 


113 


chap/’ said his lordship cordially. “Naturally you would 
have the preference to that cad Hopkins.” 

“Ah! Thank you, Lynham. Ladies — gentlemen — I 

bid you good-day.” 

When he had gone Miss Kingsley addressed Lord 
Lynham with biting sarcasm. 

“Well, my lord, are you satisfied with your mare’s 
nest? If I had waited but another day the profit you 
will take would have been ours.” 

Mrs. Kingsley moaned pitiably, twice. Lord Lynham 
shrugged his shoulders. 

“My dear young lady,” he replied, “in the expressive 
phraseology of your countrymen, business is business. 
Let it rest there, please. Now, with your permission, I 
will step into the hall and confer with my friends.” 

The girl inclined her head coldly. Lord Lynham took 
Charley and Mr. Teeters by the arm and withdrew into 
the hall. 

“Say, Harry,” burst out Mr. Teeters, “I’m dizzy as a 
mutt on a merry-go-round, with all that money talk. 
Three hundred thousand seeds for a pint of paint on a 
yard of cotton ? Oh mother dear, fan me !” 

“And there’s the frame,” said Charley. 

Lord Lynham laughed lightly. 

“Worth another hundred thousand easily. Eh — what? 
But joking aside, Charley, here’s a chance to make a pot 
of money; and I can’t swing it, by Jove! I can only 
manage seventy-five thousand dollars. 

“I was going to cable the pater for the rest, and if 
I couldn’t hear from him in time, get the option extended. 
But the fat’s in the fire now with Hopkins and Hendricks 
nosing in. That girl in there wouldn’t give me ten sec- 
onds’ leeway.” 

“Not five,” said Charley, showing concern. 


114 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Exactly! So, as the matter stands/’ went on Lyn- 
ham, “it has occurred to me that perhaps you might like 
to come in, old chap — half and half — and pick a plum 
with me. What ?” 

Now, as the reader of this veracious history well 
knows, Mr. Carter was traveling largely on his reputa- 
tion as a millionaire. A reputation for wealth will carry 
one a long way, but when it comes to an actual show- 
down — as in draw-poker or, as in this case, picture- 
buying — it is only the ready cash that counts. Mr. Car- 
ter knew this, yet the thought of risking practically his 
entire capital in a totally untried field of investment did 
not, somehow, cause him marked disquiet. 

“I get you,” he notified Lord Lynham. “You put up 
seventy-five thousand. I match it. Share and share 
alike. That it ?” 

“In a nutshell,” asseverated the Englishman. 

Doubt still assailed Mr. Carter, it seemed. 

“Cup and lip. You know how it goes — many a slip. 
What about it?” 

“No fear. I know Hendricks. I — dash it, my dear 
boy, I will guarantee the sale!” 

“Fine! I’m on!” replied Mr. Carter promptly. 

“I should worry!” exulted Mr. Teeters. “It’s like 
dreaming it’s raining money and waking up to find it 
sticking to your clothes.” 

“How about that twenty, Harry? Egg in mare’s nest. 
Ready to hatch. What ?” Charley put the question with 
a sly grin. 

“Gad, I’ve lost!” exclaimed Lord Lynham. He hand- 
ed over the amount in merry mood, and led the way 
back into the parlor. As he entered, the ladies regarded 
him attentively. 


“THE LADY OF THE LOGGIA” 


115 


“Mr. Carter and I have agreed to buy the Titian joint- 
ly,” he announced. 

“Cash!” exploded Mrs. Kingsley. 

Lynham smiled good-humoredly, and looked at 
Charley. 

“Sure,” said Mr. Carter. “Anything to oblige .” 

“As you say,” asserted Lynham. “To-morrow, then, 
at eleven o’clock ” 

“Make it one,” requested Mr. Carter. “Got to go to 
the bank. Downtown.” 

“At one, then, Mrs. Kingsley,” amended his lordship, 
“we shall be prepared to conclude the matter.” 

“On the dot,” asserted Charley. “Little lunch in my 
rooms to celebrate. Just the five of us — no more. I’ll 
send a car down. Bring the picture with you. Right, 
Harry?” 

“Eh? What?” Lord Lynham seemed to be some- 
what perturbed. “I was thinking we’d better come up 
here. Matter of business, old chap — selling and buying — 
nothing social about it.” 

Charley looked his disappointment. 

“Pleasure to entertain the ladies,” he declared. 
“Friends. Leave it to Miss Kingsley.” 

The girl smoothed the frown on her brow, and an- 
swered winningly: 

“I am in your debt, Mr. Carter — and in yours, Mr. 
Teeters — and we shall be delighted to come. Mother?” 

“Delighted,” parroted Mrs. Kingsley. 

“Oh, put in that way,” yielded Lord Lynham grace- 
fully, “pray believe that I shall be delighted, too. Shall 
we go, Charley?” 

“Ready,” responded Mr. Carter. He bent over and 
whispered to Miss Kingsley and her mother: “Good 


116 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


old sport, Harry. Make it right with you when we sell 
the picture. Share the profits. Only fair.” 

Mrs. Kingsley gazed at him blankly, but her daughter, 
who was of a more nimble wit, thanked him with her 
matchless eyes. 

“What a generous gentleman you are!” she whis- 
pered back. 

A moment later, when the front door had closed on 
Charley, the young woman, who had stood with her 
finger to her lips, listening, burst into a peal of laughter. 
Then, snatching the older woman from her chair, she 
tangoed up and down the room with her until they both 
were out of breath. 


CHAPTER XI 


A RUDE INTRUDES 

Lord Lynham, it seemed, had encountered the ladies 
at the entrance of the Hotel Rirebien. He escorted them 
up to Mr. Carter’s apartment, and almost immediately 
they were followed by a porter staggering under the 
Titian. 

“You’ve had it boxed!” Charley exclaimed. 

“I was afraid something might happen to it,” ex- 
plained Miss Kingsley. “It is not insured.” 

“If that Tishern was mine,” observed Mr. Teeters, 
“I’d die for want of sleep, just sitting up to shoo the 
flies off it. Lawsygawsy! I’d be afraid of fire, thieves, 
thunder and lightning, and the ghost of J. P. Morgan!” 

He cackled at this conceit, and to his astonishment 
drew a titter from Mrs. Kingsley. 

“Wait, Jim,” called Charley to the porter, who was 
leaving. “Want you to open this.” 

The porter produced a hammer and chisel from some- 
where, and fell ravenously on the box. He knew Mr. 
Carter and the amplitude of his tips. But this was a 
consideration that had no weight with Lynham. 

“I say, old chap, don’t you think we’d better leave it 
as it is?” he suggested. “We shall only have to pack it 
up again to send to Hendricks. What?” 

“It would save you trouble,” remarked Miss Kingsley, 
indolently seating herself near her mother. 

“Jim lives on trouble,” grinned Charley. “Eats it. 


118 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


And I want to see the picture again. Got to brush up 
on art now. May take another flyer.” 

“Oh, have it as you wish,” said Viscount Lynham. 
He took an enameled cigarette-case from his pocket, and 
glanced at the ladies. “Have I your permission?” he 
asked, and without waiting for it struck a light. 

Mr. Teeters helped the porter lift the Titian from 
the box. Charley placed a chair to one side, facing the 
windows, and on this they set the painting. The shades 
were high, and the light fell full upon it. Miss Kingsley 
and her mother looked on at the proceeding with a de- 
gree of uneasiness induced, presumably, by fears for the 
safety of the treasure. Lord Lynham leaned idly against 
the chimney-piece, and inhaled his cigarette luxuriously. 

“That will do, Jim,” said Charley. He tossed a silver 
dollar to the man, who ducked his head and slipped out. 

“Say, Come-On,” cried Mr. Teeters, who had taken 
up a position before the picture. “This ‘Lady of the 
Loadyer’ was a gay young skirt all right — I’ll bet a hat 
on it. Pipe her lamps! She looks like a little joke I 
know in the chorus ’round at the Casino. Didn’t notice 
it yesterday.” 

Charley went and stood beside him. 

“It’s the light, I guess,” he said gravely. “Shows it up 
better.” He studied the canvas with an absorbed air. 
“When did you say it was painted, Harry?” he ques- 
tioned. 

Mrs. Kingsley turned sharply to Lord Lynham, but 
Miss Kingsley let her eyes dwell on Mr. Carter’s face. 

“Titian,” replied his lordship, slowly exhaling a thin 
stream of smoke through his nostrils, “lived over four 
hundred years ago, my dear friend.” 

“My!” said Mr. Carter reverently; and at his tone 
Miss Kingsley’s eyes fell. 


A RUDE INTRUDER 


119 


‘‘Shall we proceed to business,” went on Lord Lyn- 
ham, “and lunch afterward?” 

“Business first,” returned Charley briskly. “Let’s sit 
up to the table.” 

“Righto!” agreed Lynham, and he and Mr. Teeters 
drew up chairs for the ladies. Mrs. Kingsley displayed 
sudden animation. 

“I’m not a bit hungry,” she announced, beaming 
around the board. 

“Nor am I, though I may be later,” avowed Miss 
Kingsley with a laugh. 

Charley gazed at her in open admiration. She was 
indeed a beautiful creature, with her red-gold hair and 
beryl eyes; a girl a man might face a cannon for, if 

only But here Charley dropped from sentiment to 

hard horse-sense and winked at, instead of worshiping, 
the goddess. 

“Look!” he said. “May help along your appetite. 
Greens from Uncle Sam’s garden.” 

He spread out fanwise before him on the table eight 
bank-notes. Seven were for ten thousand dollars each, 
and one was for five. Mrs. Kingsley caught her breath 
at the sight, but the girl laughed gaily. 

“Oh, I feel my hunger growing!” she replied. 

“I,” broke out Mr. Teeters passionately, “could eat 
’em raw!” 

“Ready, Harry?” queried Mr. Carter. “Cash, you 
know. Mrs. Kingsley said it.” 

“I did !” asserted Mrs. Kingsley with emphasis. 
“Safety-deposit vaults for me.” 

Lord Lynham shoved across the table to Charley a 
thick batch of bills. 

“I think you’ll find that right — seventy-five thousand 


120 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


dollars, less the option. You fix it up, old chap, and 
get the business over with. It’s dragging.” 

Mr. Carter surveyed the company with solicitude. 

“Got a word to say first,” he remarked 

“Well?” It was Mrs. Kingsley, and her voice was 
anxious. 

“I’m scared,” continued Charley, trying to assume 
the appropriate expression. “Got the shakes. Can’t af- 
ford to drop this roll. If Hendricks doesn’t buy ” 

“Oh, but my dear boy ! He will,” Lynham interrupted. 
“And besides, I have guaranteed the sale.” 

“I don’t see how you can lose in that case,” said 
Miss Kingsley brightly. “Lord Lynham’s word is his 
bond, of course.” 

“Ha !” vociferated Mr. Teeters. “I wish he’d promise 
me a million. What’s eating you, Come-On?” 

“That option,” replied Charley. “If Mrs. Kingsley 
would extend it ” 

The lady cut him short with a burst of ironical laugh- 
ter — forgetful, evidently, of Charley’s generous promise 
to share the profits with her. 

“Excellent!” she cried. “And let you get the three 
hundred thousand we could get ourselves? Not a min- 
ute later than two-thirty!” 

“Really, old chap,” expostulated the Viscount, “this 
is farcical, you know.” 

“Guess it is,” conceded Charley. “But if you should 
die — or Hendricks? By George! Say! Where’d I 
be?” 

“Merry Moses! I never thought of that!” ejaculated 
Mr. Teeters. “People do croak, you know, Harry, when 
they ain’t looking for it — sudden, like the waiter spilling 
soup down your back. He don’t blow a horn before he 
does it!” 


A RUDE INTRUDER 


121 


“Oh, I say!” protested Lynham, struggling with his 
impatience. “What do you want me to do, Carter — sign 
a note? Eh?” 

Charley broke into a broad smile. 

“Bully!” he exclaimed. “Make your estate liable. 
Have to pay. Wait !” He rummaged in an inner pocket. 
“Here’s a note. Luck! And here’s my pen. Make it 
on demand. One hundred and fifty thousand. Hen- 
dricks pays you, and you pay me. Simple!” 

“Simple as sitting down on nothing,” was Mr. Teeters’s 
interjected comment. 

Lord Lynham lifted his shoulders by way of answer 
and, screwing his monocle in his eye, engaged in the 
task of drawing up the note. Charley meanwhile care- 
lessly ran through the little mound of bank-notes before 
him. 

“This, I trust, finishes the affair,” observed his lord- 
ship peevishly, passing back to Charley the pen and the 
note. “I’m dashed if you wouldn’t think we were buying 
the Bank of England.” 

“It is as good as the Bank of England — Lord Lyn- 
ham’s note, I am sure,” declared Miss Kingsley. 

“Good as gold,” affirmed the elder lady. 

Charley started suddenly. 

“Was that some one at the door, Percy?” he asked 
in a voice inordinately loud. 

As if in prearranged response, the door was thrust 
open, and a young man of slight build, but with a bold 
blue eye, strolled in. 

“Hello, sport!” he accosted Mr. Carter, and slapped 
him on the back. “Thought I’d drop in and feel your 
pulse. What are you doing with that bunch of kale — ■ 
dealing faro? Hey, there, Merciful, playing capper?” 

Mr. Teeters fidgeted in his chair. Lord Lynham fo- 


COME-ON CHARLEY 



cused his glass on the loud young man and stared. Char- 
ley made apologies for the intrusion. 

“Friend of mine,” he said. “Teddy Ball.” 

He let the introduction rest there, but Mr. Ball was 
not at all unhinged by this omission. He bowed with 
easy grace, and inquired genially: 

“What’s the game? Cutting a melon?” 

“Buying a picture,” answered Charley. “A Tishyan. 
Four hundred years old. In that chair. Have a look.” 

“ ’Pon my word, Carter, this is going a little far,” 
spoke up Lord Lynham with pronounced irritation. “I 
would suggest that your friend retire until we conclude 
our business. In short — er — I must request it.” 

“Oh, don’t mind me,” said Mr. Ball pleasantly. “And 
besides, I’ve nowhere to go. So this is the Titian, eh? 
What’s the purse it’s hung up for ?” 

“One hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Mr. Car- 
ter informed him. “Dirt cheap.” 

“One hundred and what?” quizzed Mr. Ball jocosely. 
“Why say, Charley, I can buy this sort down in Grand 
Street by the dozen at twenty dollars apiece — frame and 
all. Quit your kidding!” 

For ten seconds the silence in the room was so acute 
that one could have heard through it a spider spin his 
web. Then it was broken by a cackle from Mr. Teeters. 

“Turn over, Teddy!” he hooted. “You’re talking in 
your sleep.” 

But Lord Lynham was not in jesting mood. He arose 
to his feet, elegant and haughty. 

“Who is this beastly bounder?” he demanded sternly 
of Mr. Carter. “If he intends his remark as a joke it 
is ill-timed, and I — eh — resent it !” 

“He’s nobody in particular,” replied Charley evenly. 


A RUDE INTRUDER 


123 


“Only Teddy Ball. Sporting editor of the Evening 
Scream ” 

Mrs. Kingsley paled, and her daughter’s red lips 
tightened. Lord Lynham’s monocle clattered down on 
his vest. 

“Sporting editor?” he sneered. “Naturally he knows 
a Titian when he sees it — naturally!” 

“A Titian, is it?” mocked Mr. Ball. 

He seized the painting, whirled it around and dashed 
his fist into the flimsy pine-board backing. It splintered, 
and he ripped the pieces off until the canvas was re- 
vealed. 

“A Titian, hey?” repeated Mr. Ball. “Look at this!” 
He pointed to a purple brand imprinted on the cheap 
cloth — and he had taken a long chance on finding it on 
this particular cut from the bolt. “ 'Gainesville Cotton 
Mills/ ” he read out. “Huh ! Maybe I don’t know a 
Titian when I see it, but I’ve got a hunch that old guy 
never bought his calico in Georgia four hundred years 
ago.” 

“Gollamighty !” croaked Mr. Teeters, and slumped 
down in his chair. 

“Harry, it’s a plant!” shrilled Miss Vera Kingsley, 
her aquamarine eyes flashing fire. 

“Pass that money back!” hissed Lynham, jumping 
for Mr. Carter. 

Charley side-stepped him; the bank notes were in his 
pocket, and his coat was buttoned over them. 

“Don’t make me hit you, Harry,” he begged. “I’ve 
rather liked you. I’d hate to muss you up. It was a 
gamble whether you’d get my money or I’d get yours. 
You started it. Take your medicine.” 

Lord Lynham’s hand shot back to his hip pocket, but 


124 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Mr. Ball was a bit ahead of him. He poked an auto- 
matic at his lordship, and remarked airily: 

“No use, old top. I’ll make a sieve look as solid as 
a dinner-plate compared to you if you’re hunting trouble. 
Why, ‘London Harry,’ I knew you the minute Charley 
told me this morning what was doing. There’s a finish 
to your work that puts the other con men in the raw- 
material class.” 

“It’s that gig-lamp — the way he wears it — that done 
the trick,” threw in Mr. Teeters mournfully. 

Mr. Ball went on, heedless of the interruption: 

“And by the way, dear old chap, the house detective 
is standing at the .door. Which would you prefer — to 
walk out quietly, for the ladies’ sake, or all of you take 
a ride down to Mulberry Street? The ride would make 
better reading for the Scream , but Charley seems to lean 
to the walkout. What do you say?” 

London Harry, being a philosopher, accepted the situ- 
ation without parley. 

“Thanks, my good fellow,” he drawled, returning to 
his character. “Mr. Carter’s way is less conspicuous and 
on the whole more agreeable, I fancy.” 

“Possibly Mr. Carter will permit us to take our leave 
at once ?” hinted Miss Kingsley ; and she smiled on Char- 
ley with the sweetness of a werewolf baring its fangs. 

“Sure,” said Charley cordially. “Sorry, though, you 
won’t stay to lunch. Some other time perhaps — at Tor- 
toni’s.” 

“Or elsewhere,” the girl rejoined, with a slow nod- 
ding of her handsome head which portended ill for Mr. 
Carter should they meet again. 

But he only laughed, and going to the door drew it 
open. 

“It’s all right, Tom,” he assured the man outside. 


A RUDE INTRUDER 


125 


“Nothing doing.” He turned to Lynham as the detective 
moved away. “By George! Didn’t we have a bet up, 
Harry? You said you’d buy the picture — a hundred 
even ? Sure you did. And you’re going to do it. Can’t 
disappoint the ladies. Wait a minute. I’ll fix it up.” 

He flattened Lynham’s promissory note against the 
wall and indorsed it “without recourse.” 

“There you are, Mrs. Kingsley.” He forced the paper 
into the lady’s nerveless hand. “Payable to your order. 
Good as gold. You said it was; and it pays for the 
Tishyan. I’ll send it around to you, Harry. You can 
mail me your check for the hundred. Any old time. 
Good-by — good luck — and regards to Mr. Hendricks.” 

Charley stepped back into the room with Mr. Ball. 
Mr. Teeters still sat slumped in his chair like a bag of 
wet sawdust. 

“Come-On, I wouldn’t ’a’ believed it!” he lamented 
in a hollow voice. 

“They might have got me,” Charley grinned. “Close 
shave.” 

“Hey?” Mr. Teeters was puzzled. 

“They overacted,” explained Charley. “That last lit- 
tle scene at the Spenditt. Played it just a shade too 
fine.” 

Mr. Ball, in the midst of igniting a dark and corpu- 
lent cigar, paused. 

“Ho! I see!” he observed. “Got a peek in behind 
the curtain and saw the finish. Put you wise!” 

“Sure,” said Charley. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE RED SEA FLEAS 

Mr. Teeters took the letter from the bell-boy, closed 
the door, and wheeled around to Mr. Carter. His pale 
eyes were wide with conjecture. 

“It’s a special delivery for you, Come-On,” he stated, 
and walked slowly over to him. 

Mr. Carter was lounging in an easy-chair by the win- 
dow of his sitting-room in the Hotel Rirebien. Mr. 
Joseph Link was seated facing him. The two were en- 
gaged in an animated discussion of the points of a debu- 
tant they had seen in a six-round bout the night before 
at the Universal Sporting Club. But at his secretary’s 
announcement, Mr. Carter looked up. Telegrams and 
special deliveries have a way of claiming one’s attention. 

“Gee !” he exclaimed. “Somebody’s in a hurry.” 

“They want the money quick,” observed Mr. Link 
sardonically. 

“Who is it from, Skeeters?” asked Mr. Carter. 

The secretary squinted at the return card on the 
envelope and read it out — 

“Jonas Hogg, Hotel Espanola, West Thirty-second 
Street.” 

At this Mr. Link grunted in derision and remarked: 

“Faith, there’s an English pig in the wrong sty. Do 
you know the animal, Charley?” 

126 


THE RED SEA FLEAS 


in 


“You can search me,” invited Mr. Carter. “What 
does he want, Percy? Read it.” 

Mr. Teeters sat down and opened the letter. Read- 
ing Mr. Carter’s mail to him was the chief and most 
onerous of his duties as private secretary to that easy- 
going gentleman; for ninety-nine per cent, of the let- 
ters being of the “touch” variety, they were never no- 
ticed. This, then, and drawing his weekly salary on the 
hair-line of maturity, were the only serious inroads on 
his time and patience which Mr. Teeters’s post involved; 
and he bore up under these cares with admirable for- 
titude. 

“Ha!” he sniggered as he spread out Mr. Hogg’s 
epistle on his knee. “Ha ! See who’s here ! Little ’Liza 
Ann has took her pen in hand.” 

“What! Who is she?” demanded Charley. 

“I’m only kidding,” replied Mr. Teeters, cackling nois- 
ily. “Don’t know her name, but a woman wrote this or 
I’ll eat the ink off it for lunch. Yeh, I knew it! It’s 
signed ‘J onas Hogg, per L. A.’ That stands for ’Liza 
Ann, don’t it?” 

“What’s the printing pinned at the top?” questioned 
Mr. Link. “Looks like it’s cut from a newspaper.” 

“Read the letter first, Percy. Get busy !” commanded 
Mr. Carter crisply. 

The secretary knew the tone, and he did not delay in 
getting busy. Once upon a time he had disregarded the 
warning signal — to his great physical discomfort. So he 
began hurriedly: 

My Dear Sir : I am alone in a strange city, and 
confined to my room with valvular heart-trouble. 
Hardship in the Far East brought it on, and worry 
has accelerated the progress of the disease. Right 


EL28 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


here let me say it is not financial worry that af- 
flicts me, for I have with me in this room, in hand- 
reach, the equivalent of one hundred thousand dol- 
lars. It is the care of this property which is caus- 
ing me sleepless nights and is aggravating my dis- 
ease. 


Mr. Teeters raised his eyes from the written page and 
wiggled his mustache. 

“If I had a hundred thousand/' he declaimed to the 
gilded electrolier overhead, “it would aggravate me so 
I'd laugh myself to death." 

“Go on !" Mr. Carter bade him, and he did so on the 
instant. 

In my extremity I have decided to turn to you for 
assistance. I do this because I believe you and your 
astute associate, Mr. Percival Teeters, to be honest, 
reliable and resourceful men. I have read about 
you in the papers, and the way you handled that 
gang of swindlers in the Titian fake — the “Lady 
of the Loggia" picture — convinces me that my fleas 
could be safely entrusted to your keeping. 

“His what?” queried Mr. Link, putting his hand to his 
right ear as if in doubt of that particular organ’s ac- 
curacy. 

Mr. Teeters went back and read the word again. 

“His fleas — f-l-e-a-s." 

“Sure," said Charley, grinning. “Hogs have 'em." 

“Saints in heaven, so they do !" assented the ex-cham- 
pion. “And so do monkeys." 

“Go on, Skeeters," enjoined Charley. “Wants to give 
us fleas. What for?" 


THE RED SEA FLEAS 


129 


Mr. Teeters reached down and scratched a purely 
imaginary bite on his scraggy shank as he went on : 

These fleas constitute the property alluded to. I 
have, in short, a fortune in fleas. I will not attempt 
particulars in the brief confines of a letter, but will 
direct your attention to the attached clipping from 
the Evening Scream of recent date. From this 
you will see that fleas of a certain variety have a 
value little suspected by the general public; in ad- 
dition, it will serve to assure you that I am not of 
unsound mind, as otherwise you might infer. 

Mr. Link interjected a skeptical grunt here, but Mr. 
Teeters continued evenly: 

To sum the matter up in a word, I am in danger 
of losing my fleas. In a few days that danger will 
have passed. If you will come to me on receipt of 
this and take charge of my fleas for the period men- 
tioned, I will compensate you liberally, and you will 
be doing a kindness to one who is hovering on the 
brink of the grave. 

“Oh, I say, Joe!” exclaimed Charley. “Poor chap! 
In bad. What?” 

Mr. Link’s compassion, however, was not so easily 
evoked. 

“Read the newspaper clipping, Merciful, me lad,” he 
requested Mr. Teeters. 

“Wait — here’s a tag at the bottom of the letter,” spoke 
up the secretary. 


130 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


I am his nurse. If you come, please be careful 
and do nothing to excite him. It might prove fatal. 

L. A. 


“You see?” said Charley to Mr. Link. 

“Give us the Scream stuff,” insisted the fighting man 
obdurately. 

Mr. Teeters complied, and anyone who will take the 
trouble to refer to the files of the Evening Scream for 
the current year will find the news item precisely as it 
is here set forth: 

$5,000 FOR A FLEA* 

Chicago, Oct. 2. — George Porkington, the eminent 
packer, is said to-day, on the authority of Alfred 
Bonwit of the Chicago Academy of Natural Sci- 
ence, to have paid $5,000 for a specimen of a rare 
variety of flea — one of the kind which is occasion- 
ally found in the skin of the sea-otter. The flea 
will be added to Mr. Porkington’s famous entomo- 
logical collection. 

“Gollamighty !” squealed Mr. Teeters, throwing aside 
the letter. “I had a water-spaniel once that was so full 
of fleas it made him bow-legged toting 'em around. If 
he’d only been a sea-otter I’d be worth now ” 

“Come down before you fall!” Mr. Link admonished 
the soaring secretary. He turned to Mr. Carter. “What 
do you think of it?” he asked. 

“Don’t know,” said Charley. “What do you think?” 

* Author’s Note. — In sober truth, this price was paid in Janu- 
ary, 1914, by Alfred Charles de Rothschild of London for a 
flea from the sea-otter, and the cable carried the news. 


THE RED SEA FLEAS 


131 


“Well,” returned the pugilist with ponderous delibera- 
tion, “I’ve not had much of an opinion of fleas up to 
now ; but if you can show me one that’s worth five thou- 
sand jingles I’ll take off my hat to it.” 

“Same here!” declared Mr. Teeters. “And I want 
to see a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of fleas before 
I die.” 

He wriggled in his chair and scratched another im- 
aginary bite. 

“Hopping Henry 1” he exclaimed. “It ain’t surprising 
this guy has got the fidgets. It makes me nervous just 
to talk about it!” 

Charley looked thoughtful. 

“Sounds straight,” he said. “Only — there’s the 

woman.” 

“What of it?” inquired Mr. Link, unable to discover 
the connection. 

“Nothing, maybe. Perhaps a lot,” rejoined Mr. Carter 
enigmatically. 

“I know what he’s driving at, Joe,” put in Mr. Tee- 
ters. “Every con-game we been up against had a girl 
out in front barking for the show; and some of them 
were peaches, believe your little boy. But this skirt ” 

He paused and wiggled his mustache with a sapient 
air. 

“Well?” The middleweight was humorously urgent. 
“Spit it out, Mr. Johnny Wise.” 

“Why,” argued the secretary, “she’s a trained nurse! 
Get that? And a church steeple is as crooked as a 
pig’s tail alongside those blue-gingham sisters. They’d 
make a ramrod look like a string of Z’s.” 

“Is that so?” Mr. Link laid a stress on the pronoun 
which was intended to carry a doubt of so sweeping an 
assertion. 


13% 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Yes, that’s so!” affirmed Mr. Teeters belligerently. 
“And besides — there’s the fleas!” 

Charley bestowed a quizzical glance on the master of 
the gloves. 

“Sure, Joe. There’s the fleas.” 

“Bet your life !” cried Mr. Teeters in triumph. “Who 
ever heard of anybody pulling off a con-game with a 
flock of fleas ? It can’t be done ! You got to have some- 
thing you can put your finger on.” 

“And the flea ain’t there,” commented Mr. Link with- 
out a smile. 

“Let’s go see this Itchy-Ike, Come-On,” implored Mr. 
Teeters. “He’s a dying man, he says — on the way to 
Croakville. We ought to help him check his trunk.” 

“By George!” said Charley. “Guess you’re right. Call 
the car.” 

Mr. Teeters crossed to the telephone and called up 
the garage. The livery yellow touring-car in which he 
had burst upon the astonished eyes of Broadway a 
few weeks back was now a memory only. For Mr. 
Carter had become the owner of a big “sixty” whose hue 
would pale a ripe tomato into dim obscurity. 

This color-scheme was Mr. Teeters’s choice. Mr. Car- 
ter cared not a thrip whether his machine were painted 
red, white or blue — or all three — so that it developed 
speed ; and Mr. Teeters’s taste, as we know, ran to violent 
effects. 

While the secretary was ordering out this blazing ve- 
hicle, Mr. Link, who did not believe in going around 
Robinson’s bam to gather information when he could 
jump the fence and land on it, put a question point- 
blank to Mr. Carter. 

“Charley, me boy, how much have you cleaned up, 


THE RED SEA FLEAS 


133 


in round numbers, from these New York Sly Sammies 
— the lads with the come-on candy ?” 

“A hundred and forty-eight thousand,” Charley told 
him. 

Mr. Link flapped the air with his huge paw. 

“Go off!” he hooted. “Ye’re joking me!” 

“Luck,” said Charley. “That’s all.” 

The man of muscle looked at him with an odd expres- 
sion on his broad face. He was proud of his pet pupil’s 
“science” with the gloves, and here was another cause 
fol 1 pride. 

“Lord love us!” he ejaculated. “And he calls it 
luck!” 

“They handed it to me. Couldn’t dodge it,” insisted 
Charley. 

“Qf course,” retorted Mr. Link with fine sarcasm. 
“It’s a way them buncos have with ’em, as everybody 
knows. You can read about it in the papers any day — 
how the suckers come to town and go home rich because 
the con-men come across so easy. Ain’t you satisfied, 
Charley, with the two million your uncle willed you, 
without robbing the poor and needy?” 

A slow smile stirred Charley’s lips. The attentive 
reader of these simple chronicles may, possibly, guess 
the reason; Charley was yet to touch the money. But 
he answered his pugilist friend readily. 

“I’m satisfied. But nothing like a little extra change. 
Grease. Keeps the wheels going ’round. Running ex- 
penses.” 

Mr. Link wagged his head regretfully. 

“Then it’s small lashings of it ye’ll be getting this day, 
me son. It looks like straight goods they’re handling. 
Bad cess to it, I say, for I’d love to see you add an- 
other honest penny to what you have. But a crook can’t 


134 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


afford to spring a funny turn like this. A Hogg with 
heart disease is going some, but when he can’t sleep o’ 
nights because Oh, faith, it would make a goat gig- 

gle! It’s got to be the real thing this time, Charley, 
boy.” 

“Sure,” said Charley. 

“It’ll be right around, Come-On,” called out Mr. Tee- 
ters from across the room. 

He turned away from the telephone and remarked: 

“Merry Moses, but the guy at that gas-tank is a 
fresh chunk of beef ! He says they have to use smoked 
glasses when they clean our car. I told him ” 

But Mr. Teeters’s retort, however pertinent or imper- 
tinent it may have been, can only be conjectured. A 
knock at the door interrupted him, and he swung about 
and opened it. 

A stout man stood in the doorway bowing apologeti- 
cally. His eyes, which were a glittering black, passed 
from one to another of the occupants of the room in 
swift survey. He might have been any age from forty 
to fifty. His face was smooth and well featured, and 
his clothes could have been worn by a banker with credit 
to himself and his tailor. 

“I beg pardon,” said this gentleman pleasantly. “My 
name is Herbert Nuckels.” 

He advanced a little way from the door and asked — 

“Which is Mr. Charles Carter, please?” 

“That’s him,” proclaimed Mr. Teeters, leveling a bony 
finger at his chief. “I’m his secretary. My name is 
Teeters.” 

“Oh! Ah!” replied the stranger. 

He advanced a little farther into the room and looked 
inquiringly at the prize-fighter. Charley made the intro- 
duction. 


THE RED SEA FLEAS 


135 


“Mr. Link,” said he, with a wave of the hand. “Have 
a chair.” 

Mr. Nuckels came still farther forward and helped 
himself to a seat. His eyes lingered for a bare instant 
on the letter which Mr. Teeters had thrown on the cen- 
ter-table. 

“I took the liberty of coming up unannounced,” he 
apprised Mr. Carter, “because I was afraid that other- 
wise you might refuse to see me.” 

Mr. Teeters looked at Charley and then at Mr. Link. 
Both were stolidly regarding the visitor. Whereupon 
Mr. Teeters spoke. 

“This is Monday,” he hinted delicately. “Wednesday 
is touch day — from four to five A. m.” 

Mr. Nuckels met this with an easy laugh. 

“Thank you; I’ll make a note of it, though I’m not 
an early riser. My errand to-day, it happens, is of a 
different nature. It has to do with a letter — a special 
delivery, from Mr. Jonas Hogg.” 

Charley and Mr. Link involuntarily glanced at the 
letter. Mr. Teeters was staring open-mouthed at the 
speaker. 

“Oh, you have received it, I see,” went on Mr. Nuckels 
blandly. “I thought I had allowed it time enough to get 
to you.” 

“I say,” said Charley, “talk turkey. Busy.” 

“I’ll detain you only a moment,” Mr. Nuckels assured 
him. “Hogg wrote to you about the fleas, of course. I 
chanced to be in the Espanola’s office when he sent the 
letter down, and saw the address. That’s how I’m here. 
I would like to know what Hogg’s proposition is.” 

“Nerve!” was Mr. Carter’s simple comment on this 
cool request. 

At this Mr. Link broke his silence. He leaned for- 


136 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


ward and addressed Mr. Nuckels with a consideration 
quite foreign to his usual manner. 

“Maybe you won’t mind telling us, Colonel, where you 
come in on this flea layout? You’ll allow it’s only a fair 
question, seeing as we haven’t met you much before to- 
day. Is Hogg a friend of yours?” 

“Friend?” Mr. Nuckels expelled the word from his 
interior with bitter sarcasm. “Friend? He’s a traitor, 
sir! He’s trying to do me out of my interest in those 
fleas!” 

“By George!” said Charley. 

Mr. Teeters shut his mouth, then opened it to give 
passage to his emotions, which were a mixture of sur- 
prise and disgust. 

“Huh!” he exclaimed. “I got another guess coming 
to me. I thought this geezer Hogg was on the level.” 

Mr. 'Nuckels made a deprecating gesture. 

“Oh, he’s not a crook, Hogg isn’t,” he demurred. “I 
spoke too hastily, perhaps. He’ll play straight enough 
with you. But he’s cutting up with me. I staked him 
to his trip to Suez and down the Red Sea, where he got 
the fleas. Cost me five thousand dollars; and now he 
claims I’m only due a third interest. He says he’s 
ruined his health, and shortened his life, and is entitled 
to more than me.” 

“Isn’t he?” asked Charley. 

“A bargain’s a bargain,” rejoined Mr. Nuckels. 

“Got any papers to show?” demanded Charley. 

“Unfortunately, no. It’s my word against his.” 

“Ha!” interposed Mr. Teeters. “We ain’t seen him 
yet.” 

Mr. Carter ignored this interruption. 

“The fleas. What about them? All right?” Ke in-? 
quired of Mr. Nuckels. 


THE RED SEA FLEAS 


137 


“The fleas?” Mr. Nuckels’s voice took on a note of 
fervor. “They are wonderful ! The rarest specimens in 
the world. Nothing like them in any of the collections. 
Why, sir, they are priceless!” 

Charley got up, and stepping to the table took from 
it Mr. Hogg’s letter. He ran his eye over it. Mr. Link 
and Mr. Teeters watched him closely. He was acting 
curiously, it seemed to them. 

“Hogg says he’s got lung trouble. Hemorrhages,” 
Charley mentioned casually. 

“What? He says that?” Mr. Nuckels’s surprise was 
manifest. 

Mr. Link’s lips twitched slightly, but Mr. Teeters’s 
mobile countenance was plastered over with astonish- 
ment. The stranger’s glittering eyes flashed from him to 
Charley. 

“Why,” he scoffed, “Hogg must be crazy to tell you 
that ! His lungs are good as mine. He has heart disease 
— valvular enlargement. And that’s the mischief of it; 
his nurse won’t let me talk with him. She says any 
violent emotion may kill him. I’m up a stump. Can’t 
move one way or the other, and I want your help.” 

Charley held out his hand. 

“Shake!” he said. “You’re straight. Here’s Hogg’s 
proposition.” 

He offered Mr. Nuckels the letter and grinned at 
Mr. Link, who chuckled his appreciation of the bit of 
strategy. 

“By gum!” cried Mr. Teeters. “Thought he was con- 
ning you, Come-On?” He cackled knowingly. “You 
ought to be able to spot a gull-guggle by this time. I 
can tell ’em in a fog so thick you got to take a hatchet 
to cut a hole in it.” 

Charley winked at Mr. Link. 


138 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Sure,” he said. “You’re a wonder, Teet.” 

“A mule, you mean,” grunted the boxer, who was 
not passionately attached to the narrow-chested secre- 
tary. “Look at his ears.” 

Mr. Nuckels, apparently, was one of those gifted 
beings who can sense a letter in a coup d’ceil, as they say 
in France and sometimes here, when one wishes to tack 
a frill to the plain garment of his native speech. The 
airy persiflage that played about him no sooner ceased 
than he rose from his chair and handed Mr. Hogg’s 
communication back to Charley. 

“It is as I thought,” he observed. “Jonas has the idea 
that I’m trying to get his fleas away from him. He’s 
wrong. I only want a square deal.” 

“Fair,” said Charley. 

“Are you going to see him?” questioned Mr. Nuckels. 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Right away.” 

“Are you going to keep the fleas for him?” 

“Can’t say,” answered Charley. “Depends.” 

Mr. Nuckels frowned to himself. Then he said, speak- 
ing earnestly: 

“Jonas is dickering with somebody, but I can’t find 
out who. He’ll want the fleas back when he’s ready to 
close the deal. Let me know when that is and I’ll make 
it worth your while — something handsome, sir. What 
do you say?” 

Charley pondered this for a moment. 

“Come around to-morrow,” he replied. “Same time. 
Talk it over.” 

He turned abruptly and walked into the next room. 
Mr. Nuckels seemed somewhat taken aback at this un- 
ceremonious dismissal. He coughed and looked at Mr. 
Teeters. That individual was staring blankly after Char- 


THE RED SEA FLEAS 


139 


ley. Mr. Nuckels looked at Mr. Link and raised his 
brows. 

‘‘Trifle queer, isn’t he?” he intimated. 

In answer, the prize-fighter, his countenance quite un- 
moved, tapped his temple with his middle finger — three 
times, and with deliberation. 

“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Nuckels. And he went out 
carrying himself with the mien of a man who is faring 
well, as far as he can spy out the road ahead. When 
he reached the street he hurried to a telegraph office 
and sent off a message. Then he lighted a cigar and 
strolled leisurely down Broadway. 


CHAPTER XIII 


WHAT WAS IN THE BASKET? 

Charley and Mr. Teeters found their top-coats com- 
fortable as they bowled southward from the Rirebien. 
Mr. Carter's coat was a plain black, as became that 
gentleman’s sober tastes, but Mr. Teeters’s was an ecru 
cheviot, and it gave him the appearance of a bilious 
ghost joy-riding in a chariot of fire. He buttoned him- 
self up a little closer as they purred along — screening 
reluctantly the glories of the plaids beneath — for he was 
long and lank, was Mr. Teeters, and shy of meat upon 
his bones. 

The tang of autumn was in the air; and if you were 
fond of the country, and your imagination riotously ram- 
pant, you could almost smell the reek of burning brush 
in garden-plots, and hear the rustle of the corn-blades 
tented with their stalks in the hazy reaches of the bot- 
tom-lands. 

But Mr. Teeters was from a New Jersey town where 
only mud and mosquitoes grew, and his imagination 
ended with his nose. And so, instead of picturing to 
himself the dreamy delights of autumn countrysides, he 
said to Mr. Carter : 

“We got to be careful, Come-On, how we spill the 
chatter with this gink we’re going to see. We got to 
remember he’s running a bum pump under his slats. 
The nurse says it’ll croak him if we get his goat. ,, 

140 


WHAT WAS IN THE BASKET? MU 

“Wish Joe was along,” remarked Charley. “Long 
head.” 

“Huh!” sniffed Mr. Teeters, but refrained from fur- 
ther comment. 

Mr. Link had declined to come with them, arguing 
that it would be crowding the mourners to obtrude 
himself uninvited at the bedside of a dying man; he 
would get the news of the visit later. This suited Mr. 
Teeters, for the pugilist had a way of taking the center 
of the stage in conversation that irked the secretary, 
who loved the limelight and hugged it as the bark hugs 
the tree. 

When the car drew up before the Hotel Espanola 
Mr. Teeters uttered an expression of disgust. 

“What sort of a coop is this?” he jeered. “Looks 
like they’d towed it down from Tarrytown and went off 
and forgot it!” 

It was, in truth, a mere box of brick stood up on end 
and wedged into line with a row of similar boxes that 
made the block. Somebody worth while may have lived 
in it in the days when Thirty-second Street was verging 
on the suburbs, but now it harbored only flotsam from 
overseas. 

The paint was peeling from the bricks, and the half 
dozen sandstone steps leading to the upper door were 
flaked and scaled away in spots until the water lay in 
shallow pools on them when it rained. The basement 
had been torn out and made over into a restaurant level 
with the street. “Table d’hote, forty cents,” was the 
Circean call to the passer-by, and the brave who entered 
deserved the fare. 

Charley and Mr. Teeters went up the sandstone steps 
and into the office of this dubious house of entertain- 
ment. A very fat woman with a sallow skin, oily black 


142 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


hair, and much powder on her nose, hoisted herself from 
a rocking-chair and waddled forward to meet them. She 
had seen the car roll up and her Latin soul rejoiced in 
its flaming splendor. An odor of garlic floated about 
this lady like an incense gone to the bad — you could have 
told her in the dark anywhere. She said to them 

But right here this historian will depart from the 
established usage of certain authors in good and regular 
standing — perhaps because he himself has not attained 
that enviable status. He is not going to plague the pa- 
tient reader with a single word of Spanish, although he 
has a neat little phrase-book at his elbow. The lady 
said, in perfectly understandable English: 

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Is there one ’ere you 
would wish to see?” 

“Jonas Hogg,” replied Charley. “Got a letter from 
him. Asked us to call.” 

The worthy matron gave her head a succession of 
short nods which set her pendulous cheeks a-quiver. 

“Ah, yes! Mr. ’Ogg! The nurse ’ave tell me he is 
attending you. Mr. Carter, is it not?” 

“Yes,” said Charley briefly. 

“Come with me, if you please,” the other begged him, 
and lumbered out into the hall. 

At the foot of a flight of stairs she paused, breathing 
stertorously, and pointed a sausage-like finger up them. 

“The front room, Number Four,” she panted. 

And with a vast smile and another discharge of rapid- 
fire nods, she left them and lumbered back to her lair. 

“Say, Come-On,” whispered Mr. Teeters, as they 
climbed the stairs. “That dame ought to hang a red 
lantern on herself when she goes out nights to show the 
street is blocked.” 


WHAT WAS IN THE BASKET? 


143 


“Stow it!” Charley ordered. “Not her fault. Ought 
to hang a bell on you. Help to find your shadow.” 

Thus properly rebuked, Mr. Teeters trailed in silence 
after his chief to Number Four. Mr. Carter tapped 
on the door. It was opened by a girl in cap and apron 
— a comely young person who stepped out into the pas- 
sage and pulled the door to behind her. She scanned 
them critically a moment before giving them welcome. 

“Mr. Carter; Mr. Teeters?” she then inquired. 

Charley smiled at her. A pretty woman always stirred 
him. 

“Yes,” he answered. “Came as quick as we could.” 

The girl smiled back at him. 

“I saw the machine and thought it might be you. I 
am Miss Amory. Please be careful not to excite my 
patient.” 

She turned the knob and preceded them into the 
room. It matched the general appearance of the house, 
which is all that need be said of it. 

“The gentlemen you were expecting, Mr. Hogg,” the 
nurse announced in the guarded tones of the sick cham- 
ber. 

The invalid was reclining in a steamer-chair over 
which a rug had been thrown. A table stood near, and 
on it was a box of Flemish oak which looked like a 
humidor for 5o’s and, in fact, was one. 

“Good ! Good !” Mr. Hogg cried out in a husky voice. 
“I’m glad you came. I’m in a devil of a fix, as you 
can see.” 

To prove it, he motioned to Miss Amory, who helped 
him up from his chair as if he were a basket of eggs 
in imminent danger of breaking. He was a short, squat 
man, with a deep chest, and long arms with hairy hands 
that hung down like an ape’s. If it were not for his 


144 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


bad heart he would be an ugly customer, Charley 
thought, in a rough and tumble fight. 

“Got to be mighty careful,” Mr. Hogg informed them. 
“And I’m an active man — or have been.” 

All this time he had been sizing up the young men 
with a pair of little, yellowish eyes. Now he held out 
his hand to Charley. 

“Mr. Carter, I take it?” 

“Yes,” said Charley. “This is Mr. Teeters.” 

Mr. Hogg shook hands with the secretary. 

“Know you both by reputation,” he remarked. 
“Everybody does. Be seated. Miss Amory! The digi- 
talis! She’s skipping again!” 

He put his palm to his chest and rolled his eyes. The 
nurse ran to the bureau and dropped something from a 
bottle into a medicine-glass. 

“I say!” exclaimed Charley. “Sit down, sir! Don’t 
make company of us. Friends!” 

Miss Amory held the glass to the sufferer’s lips and 
he swallowed the dose. It seemed to have a miraculous 
effect, for almost instantly he brightened up. 

“Gollamighty !” breathed Mr. Teeters to himself. “I 
thought he was going to cash in!” 

“Be seated, be seated,” Mr. Hogg urged his callers. 
“Don’t mind me. They come and go, these attacks. 
I’m all right now.” 

Charley looked around, and spying a chair at the table 
sat down. There was a waste-basket under the table, 
and he pushed it a little with his feet to get it out of 
the way. Mr. Teeters deposited himself on a sofa by the 
wall. He kept his eyes glued on Mr. Hogg with a sort 
of horrible fascination. He counted him as good as 
dead, and would not have been surprised had an under- 
taker walked in to take his measure. 


WHAT WAS IN THE BASKET f 


145 


“Here are the fleas,” said Mr. Hogg, tapping the 
oaken box on the table. “Miss Amory, a straight chair, 
please.” 

The nurse fetched one from a corner, and he was 
about to seat himself when someone knocked on the 
door. 

“See who it is,” he commanded. 

The girl opened the door and disclosed a boy with 
a telegram. 

“Ah !” ejaculated Mr. Hogg. “Perhaps its from 
Porkington’s man in Chicago. Bring it to me. Quick!” 

He glanced at the dispatch and smiled broadly. 

“I’ve sold ’em!” he exulted. 

“Oh, I’m so glad!” murmured Miss Amory. “It is 
better for you than medicine.” She dropped on the sofa 
by Mr. Teeters. 

“Listen!” requested Mr. Hogg of Charley: 

Will be with you Thursday at nine-thirty. Mr. 
Porkington authorizes purchase of all the fleas at 
your price — one hundred and ten thousand dollars. 

Stephen Lawler. 

“By George!” said Charley. “Want to see those 
fleas.” 

“The ten thousand is for you, sir,” Mr. Hogg told 
him. “I had it in view when I made the deal — to pay 
someone well. Wait! I’ll come to that,” he added, see- 
ing Charley’s amazement. 

He sat down and drew the box to him. Charley edged 
closer to the table. His feet encountered the basket 
again, and he pushed it gently until it stood half clear 
of the table, on the side away from the sofa. 

“You see the wreck I am?” continued Mr. Hogg. 


U6 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Chasing these fleas did it. But have a look at them 
before I go on/’ 

He turned the key in the box and lifted the lid. A 
wire-gauze screen in a wooden framework was fitted 
into the box like a tray. Underneath was a lining of 
clean, white blotting-paper, and crawling around on the 
bottom were the fleas. 

Charley gave a cry. 

“Why — I say — they’re bluer 

Mr. Teeters sprang up from the sofa and came over 
to them. His mustache wiggled and his pale eyes gog- 
gled as he peered at the insects. One of them jumped. 

“Leaping Lazarus!” squeaked the secretary. “If a 
dog had ’em he’d lose his mind!” 

Another flea jumped, and then another. 

“Lively as crickets !” said Mr. Hogg proudly. 
“Twenty of ’em. Fifty-five hundred apiece. Some fleas, 
eh? And I brought them all the way from Suakin! A 
bit of raw beef and plenty of moisture is all they need — 
salt water. Caught ’em in the Red Sea.” 

“Ha!” croaked Mr. Teeters. “Why ain’t they red, 
then ?” 

Mr. Hogg indulged in a husky laugh. 

“Because they’re blue,” he returned. 

Mr. Teeters went back to the sofa and sat down by 
Miss Amory. He scratched himself first on one arm, 
then on the other, and wriggled in his coat. 

“It makes me feel that way, too, when I look at 
them,” the girl confided to him in a whisper. 

“Funny,” said Charley to Mr. Hogg. “Never heard 
of a blue flea before.” He was intently watching the 
little animals. 

“Of course you haven’t,” rejoined the invalid. “And 
no one else till I caught ’em — except a sailor who found 


WHAT WAS IN THE BASKET ? 


147 


one on a dugong and told me about it. He’s dead now 
— the sailor chap.” 

“Doo-gong?” put in Mr. Teeters from the sofa. 
“What’s that? Anything like a dinner-gong ?” 

“A dugong,” explained Mr. Hogg patiently, “is a sea- 
cow. They live in the Red Sea and come up on the 
shore to eat the grass. They ” 

“Do they give milk?” interrupted Mr. Teeters, hon- 
estly eager for information. 

Charley winked at Mr. Hogg and answered for him. 

“Sure,” he said. “Condensed milk. Feed babies on 
it.” 

Mr. Teeters perceived the pleasantry and cackled; but 
Mr. Hogg, it seemed, was not in playful mood. He 
frowned and went on: 

“They have a bunch of hair under the flippers, and 
there’s where you find the fleas — if you’re lucky. They’re 
mighty scarce. I had to kill a hundred and seventy- 
three cows to get the fleas in that box. And it pretty 
near killed me. Ow ! She’s skipping again, Miss Amory. 
The digitalis!” 

While the nurse was giving succor, Charley let his 
eyes stray about the room. At length they idly rested 
on the waste-basket at his side. It seemed to interest 
him. Presently he took his handkerchief from his 
pocket. It slipped through his fingers and fell to the 
floor, and he bent down from his chair to recover it. 
When he had accomplished this the handkerchief was 
wadded up in his hand into a ball. He dabbed his fore- 
head with it — for the room was warm — and returned it 
to his pocket. 

Mr. Teeters, to whom the basket was in plain view 
from the sofa, did not note this incident. His eyes 
were again fixed on Mr. Hogg with fearful interest; 


148 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


and he sighed with relief when the gentleman rallied 
handsomely from his seizure. 

“It’ll get me yet,” allowed Mr. Hogg with an air of 
resignation. “But Fve made my name! Hogg’s Fleas 
will wake ’em up when my deal with Porkington is 
known. He’s buying them all to keep them out of 
other collections. See the point?” 

Charley grinned at him, meanwhile working the basket 
back under the table, very softly and very slowly, with 
his feet. 

“Sure,” he responded. “Cornered the flea-market.” 
He pulled out his watch and glanced at the time. “Gee ! 
Half-past one! Got to leave. Engagement.” 

“Hold on!” cried Mr. Hogg. “Ain’t you going to 
take care of my fleas for me? I was coming to that.” 

“Oh !” said Charley. “Thought you’d forgotten it. Go 
ahead.” 

There was a subtle change in his attitude toward the 
afflicted man. 

“It’s like this,” pursued Mr. Hogg. “A chap named 
Nuckels is trying to rob me of my fleas. He’s made 
two attempts, and he’ll try again. It’s a business trouble 
between us, and he’d do me if I’d let him. I came to 
this confounded dog-kennel to hide from him, but he 
tracked me. He’s got me worked up to such a pitch, 
blast him, that I can’t sleep! I — I ” 

“Mr. Hogg!” warned the nurse. 

He swallowed once or twice and put his hand to his 
heart. 

“Began to skip,” he vouchsafed, and went on more 
calmly. “To get down to business, I want you to keep 
my fleas for me, Mr. Carter. And I don’t want anyone 
to see them — not a soul. Put them in the safe at 


WHAT WAS IN THE BASKET ? 


149 


your hotel ; and on Thursday, at nine-thirty, bring them 
to me. Will you do it?” 

Charley hesitated. He appeared to be considering the 
matter. 

“Don’t like the job,” he said at last. “Big respon- 
sibility.” 

“But I’ll pay you like a prince ! Ten thousand dollars ! 
By heavens, sir, you can’t turn it down !” 

Charley took this under consideration also. Mr. Hogg 
looked at him anxiously. 

“Cash? Bank-notes?” asked Charley. 

“On the nail, when you return the fleas.” 

Charley’s features relaxed — broke into a grin. 

“Go youf” he said. “Can’t stand the pressure.” 

Mr. Hogg took the moistening-pad from the lid of 
the humidor. 

“Miss Amory!” he called. “Wet it in that sea-water 
on the wash-stand. Soak it! And bring me the plate 
of beef.” 

These instructions being complied with promptly, Mr. 
Hogg inserted a small piece of the beef under the tray, 
placed the dripping pad back in the lid, locked the box, 
and dropped the key in his pocket. 

“They’ll do all right now until Thursday,” he as- 
serted. “Place the box in the safe, and don’t tell them 
what’s in it. Remember, there’s a fortune in those 
fleas. I’ve got to trust somebody, and I’ve chosen you, 
sir. I believe you’re honest.” 

“Thanks,” said Charley. 

He stood up, put the box under his arm, and added: 

“Nine- thirty, Thursday. Watch your heart. Bad 
shape. Come along, Teet.” 

Mr. Hogg did not rise. He was leaning back in his 
chair, exhausted. The nurse escorted them to the door. 


150 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“For goodness’s sake don’t let anything happen to the 
fleas,” she admonished Mr. Carter in a low aside. “It 
would kill him!” 

“Miss Amory !” Mr. Hogg’s voice came to them, weak 
and suffering. “The digitalis! She’s skipping again!” 

The girl hastily closed the door on the departing 
guests. 

“Say, Come-On,” questioned Mr. Teeters, halting half 
way down the stairs, “what the dickens is that ‘digit- 
ally’ stuff the chicken’s feeding him?” 

“Dream-water,” said Charley soberly. 

Mr. Teeters cackled at this good joke, and they went 
on to the street. 


CHAPTER XIV 


A BIT OF LEGERDEMAIN 

“Blue fleas?” Mr. Link’s tone was judicial. “I don’t 
see why not. Because you never heard of them before, 
Charley, is nothing against the argyment. You never 
heard of anybody having an appendix till the surgeons 
found a new way of getting rich.” 

It was the day after Charley’s visit to Mr. Hogg, and 
the ex-champion had dropped around to learn the news. 

“That’s what I say!” chimed in Mr. Teeters. “There’s 
blackbirds and bluebirds, and blackfish and bluefish. 
What’s the matter with black fleas and blue fleas?” 

Mr. Link bestowed a grudging glance of approval on 
the secretary. 

“A knockout for you, me laddy-buck. You think of 
fleas as black, Charley, don’t you?” 

“Sure,” said Charley. 

“And you think of grass as green?” 

Charley nodded. 

“And yet ” Mr. Link’s voice rose triumphant — * 

“they brag about the blue grass in Kentucky!” 

Charley, who had been gravely contemplating Mr. 
Link, looked away. 

“You’d call it straight, then?” he queried. 

“Well,” contended Mr. Link, still preserving his ju- 
dicial air, “I can’t see where it’s crooked. They’re not 
trying to sell you the fleas, and they’re going to pay you 
151 


152 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


for keeping them. Whether they’re blue, black or green 
don’t cut any figure. Faith, I can’t see a hole to slip 
through anywhere unless — aha! — unless you lose the lit- 
tle devils!” 

“In the safe. Downstairs,” said Charley. “Box tight 
as drum. No holes.” 

“You saw them in the box when he locked it?” in- 
terrogated the pugilist. 

“Merry Moses!” broke in Mr. Teeters impatiently. 
“What’s eating you, Joe? Do you think he could pick 
them fleas out with his fingers? He’d have to use fly- 
paper to do the trick — and we sitting right there lamp- 
ing him. Come again!” 

Mr. Link grunted. For once he was without a re- 
joinder. Happily the telephone rang and saved his face. 
Mr. Teeters answered the summons. 

“Hey, Come-Qn !” he reported, at the same time muf- 
fling the instrument. “That guy Nuckels is in the 
office.” 

“Tell him to wait. Coming down,” Charley instructed 
him. He jumped up and then, with an afterthought, 
addressed the middleweight. “Want you to go with me 
Thursday, Joe. See Hogg. Interesting.” 

“But ” began Mr. Link. 

Charley cut him off. 

“Want you. Won’t take no. Nine o’clock from 
here.” 

“Oh, all right,” assented Mr. Link. “Anything to 
oblige.” He rose to his feet. “I guess I’ll be going.” 

“Wait a while,” requested Mr. Carter. “Got a rea- 
son.” He grinned and added : 

“Say, Joe, put the gloves on with Skeeters. Keep 
him out of mischief.” 


A BIT OF LEGERDEMAIN 


153 


With this preposterous suggestion he left the two to 
a strained companionship. 

Mr. Nuckels came forward as Charley stepped from 
the elevator. He would have indulged in the compli- 
ments of the day, but Charley stopped him. 

“Busy,” he said curtly. “Only got a second. Talk 
quick.” 

Mr. Nuckels shot a glance at him. Yes, he was 
“queer,” for a certainty. 

“That suits me,” he professed with a short laugh. 
“Have you got the fleas?” 

“In the safe there,” said Charley. 

“Can I have a look at them?” 

“Hogg has key,” Charley answered. 

“Oh!” Mr. Nuckels showed disappointment. “Well, 
when does he close the deal? When are you going to 
take them back?” 

“Perhaps I won’t, myself,” Charley told him placidly. 

“What?” Mr. Nuckels now showed alarm. 

“Secretary. May send by him,” said Charley. “Or 
messenger boy.” 

Mr. Nuckels appeared to be genuinely perturbed by 
this announcement. 

“Say!” he cried. “That won’t do at all. You’re re- 
sponsible for those fleas.” 

“Sure,” said Charley. 

He looked at the big clock over the desk. 

“Got anything more to say? In a hurry.” 

Mr. Nuckels cast about him with his eyes, as if seek- 
ing an apt reply. 

“I’ll say this!” he blurted out. “I’ll give you — hang 
it, I’ll give you five thousand dollars if you’ll tell me 
when Hogg wants those fleas back, and if you’ll take 
them yourself. I want somebody present I can trust.” 


154 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Charley shook his head. 

“Can’t promise,” he objected. “Afraid of Hogg.” 

“Ten thousand!” urged Mr. Nuckels in his extremity. 

Charley frowned reflectively. Then he said: 

“Spot cash? Half down? Now?” 

Mr. Nuckels recoiled from him indignantly. 

“And you a millionaire!” he vociferated. “Not on 
your life! I’ll pay you when we get to Hogg’s.” 

“Good-by,” said Charley quietly, and turned away. The 
interview was finished — at least so Mr. Nuckels believed. 

“Wait!” he entreated. 

Charley walked rapidly on. Mr. Nuckels ran after 
him. 

“I — I’ll pay,” he stuttered, and there was anguish in 
his voice. “But it — it’s not regular! Come over here 
in this corner.” 

Charley followed him stolidly. Mr. Nuckels extracted 
from his trousers-pocket a tremendous roll of bills and 
counted off from it five thousand dollars. He handed 
this to Mr. Carter with pained reluctance. 

“I have your word of honor you’ll bring the fleas 
yourself?” he catechized, boring into Charley with his 
glittering black eyes. 

The question of the day and hour seemed of less 
concern. 

“Sure thing,” Charley said. “Meet me Thursday. 
Half-past nine. Hogg’s hotel.” 

This time he walked on and out into the street un- 
hindered. Mr. Nuckels watched him go. Then, swear- 
ing fervidly to himself, he sought consolation in the 
bar. 

Charley marched on till he rounded the corner. A 
taxicab came along with the flag up, and he beckoned to 
it. He took from his pocket a slip of paper which bore 


A BIT OF LEGERDEMAIN 


155 


an address he had procured from the clerk at the Rire- 
bien earlier in the day. This address he gave the driver 
and they started off. 

When Charley returned, an hour later, he was lean- 
ing back in the taxi in a thoughtful mood. A red spot 
on his cuff caught his eye. He looked at it and grinned. 

Wednesday passed off quietly. No word came from 
either Mr. Nuckels or Mr. Hogg. On Thursday morning 
shortly after nine o’clock Charley, with Mr. Teeters 
and Mr. Link, set out for the Hotel Espanola. Just 
before the car turned into Thirty-second Street Charley 
called to his chauffeur to stop. 

“Get out,” he said to Mr. Link. 

“What for?” 

Mr. Link evinced surprise. So did Mr. Teeters. 

“Got a reason,” said Charley. 

Mr. Link stepped out. 

“Want ten minutes’ start of you,” continued Charley. 
“Time yourself. Room Number Four. Upstairs. Don’t 
knock. Walk in. Go on, Billy.” 

Billy threw in the clutch and they swept away, leav- 
ing Mr. Link staring at his watch. 

“What’s the idea, Come-On?” quizzed Mr. Teeters. 

Mr. Carter contemplated his secretary with a serious 
face. “Joe’s liver’s out of order,” he remarked. “Walk’ll 
do him good.” 

They were at the hotel curb by now. Mr. Nuckels 
was waiting for them in the entrance. His countenance 
cleared as Charley came up the steps with the box. 

“You’re late!” he observed. 

“Sorry. Ran over a street coming down,” replied 
Mr. Carter. 

He seemed to be in excellent spirits. 

Mr. Nuckels failed to respond to this jeu d’ esprit, but 


156 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


the fat lady who stood in the office door surveying them 
smiled massively from out her garlicky envelopment. 

“Good morning,” Charley greeted her. “Fine day.” 

To the lady’s stupefaction he seized her hand and 
shook it heartily. 

“Let’s go up,” Charley suggested to Mr. Nuckels, 
and made for the stairs. 

The fat lady had fallen speechless into her chair. 
Charley had left a gold eagle in her palm. At the head 
of the stairs Mr. Nuckels touched Charley on the arm. 

“Hogg has a man with him,” he said. “It’s Lawler 
— Porkington’s agent. I saw him come in, and I know 
him. Hogg won’t row with me before Lawler, so don’t 
worry about that.” 

“I won’t,” Charley earnestly assured him. “And say! 
I’ll take the other half now. Five thousand.” 

“When we get inside,” Mr. Nuckels promised. “Come 
on. 

Charley handed the box of fleas to Mr. Teeters. 

“Take them in,” he bade him. “Get a receipt. Wait 
for you in car.” 

He started back to the stairs. Mr. Nuckels swore 
openly, though there was a crafty light in his eyes. 

“Oh, if you can’t trust me, all right!” he blustered. 
“Here !” He produced his roll and shucked off a hand- 
ful of notes which reduced it to a pitiable condition of 
exiguity. “I’ve made good, haven’t I?” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Real sport. Glad I met you.” 

He took the box from the gaping secretary and led 
the way to Number Four. Miss Amory opened to them. 
Mr. Nuckels crowded rudely past her. Charley fol- 
lowed, but with a smile for the girl. Mr. Teeters brought 
up the rear. He noted that there was a stack of bank- 
bills on the table, and that Charley sidled up to them. 


A BIT OF LEGERDEMAIN 


157 


“Here’s the fleas, Jonas,” proclaimed Mr. Nuckels as 
he entered. “I met Mr. Carter below and came up with 
him. Now don’t excite yourself!” 

“Miss Amory! The digitalis!” yapped Mr. Hogg. 

The nurse went through the maneuvers familiar to 
Mr. Carter and his secretary, and Mr. Hogg recovered 
himself as usual. He had dropped on the side of the 
bed and was in the act of rising when Mr. Link walked 
in unheralded. 

“Hello, Joe?” Charley hailed him. “Changed your 
mind? Want to see fleas?” 

He glanced good-humoredly around and introduced 
the prize-fighter. 

“Mr. Link, friends. In the glove line. Made a for- 
tune.” 

The situation, which had been ominously tense, 
changed somewhat at these last magic words. Two rich 
men are better than one. Mr. Link, unable to catch 
Charley’s drift, bowed sociably and preserved a dis- 
creet silence. Under his easy-fitting coat he did not 
show alarmingly his gladiator-build. 

“Pleased to know you,” Mr. Hogg said to him. 
“Gentlemen, this is Mr. Lawler, Mr. Porkington’s con- 
fidential agent.” 

Mr. Lawler acknowledged the presentation with an 
abbreviated nod. His face looked as if it had been pulled 
out too far in the middle and pushed back too much at 
the ends. But that was Mr. Porkington’s affair. Con- 
fidential agents are not selected for pulchritudinous per- 
fection. 

“Well, Hogg, let’s get to business,” spoke up Mr. 
Lawler. “Here’s your check. Let me see the fleas 
again.” 


158 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


He laid down an imposing bank-check and glanced 
at the box under Charley’s arm. 

“What’s that for?” asked Charley, pointing to the 
money stacked up on the table. 

He put the question with such an air of bovine in- 
nocence that Mr. Hogg was constrained to smile. He 
wondered how this stupid millionaire had ever bested 
“London Harry” in the picture-game. 

“That’s for you,” he answered — “when I find the fleas 
all safe. You’re responsible for them.” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Here they are.” 

He placed the humidor on the table and picked up the 
bank-notes. 

“Wait a minute !” cautioned Mr. Hogg. “Let me look 
at the fleas.” 

“Sure,” repeated Charley. He put the bills back on 
the table, but nearer to him than before. 

Mr. Link, on whose countenance a series of rapid 
changes had been taking place, inserted himself unob- 
trusively between Mr. Hogg and Charley. Mr. Nuckels 
and Mr. Lawler were on the opposite side of the table. 
Miss Amory and Mr. Teeters stood at the farther end 
from Mr. Hogg. The latter, who had been fumbling in 
his vest pocket for the key to the box, found it at last. 
He poked it in the lock and threw up the lid. A sharp 
exclamation escaped him. Mr. Nuckels and Mr. Law- 
ler echoed the cry. 

“These are red fleas!” cried Mr. Hogg. 

“Red !” yelled his chorus, and Mr. Lawler snatched up 
his check. 

“Gollamighty !” squeaked Mr. Teeters. 

“What sort of hocus-pocus is this, sir ?” demanded Mr. 
Hogg. 


A BIT OF LEGERDEMAIN 


159 


He glowered at Mr. Carter menacingly. Mr. Carter 
returned it with a cheerful grin. 

“Gee!” he said. “Funny. You locked box. Hasn’t 
been opened. Swear it.” 

Mr. Hogg’s lips parted wolfishly. His excitement 
grew, but apparently the digitalis was forgotten. 

“Bah !” he shouted. “You could get a key. Anybody 
could.” 

“But I didn’t,” asseverated Charley. “Told you that 
once.” 

He did not seem in the least affronted by the doubt 
cast on his veracity. On the contrary, it seemed to 
amuse him. Mr. Hogg, utterly regardless now of his 
impaired heart, flew into a passion. 

“I gave you blue fleas — blue!” he raged. “And you 
return me these common red fleas!” You robbed me, 
sir, and you’ll sit right down and write me a check for 
a hundred and ten thousand dollars. What’s more, you’ll 
stay here till I get it cashed!” 

Mr. Nuckels emitted a growl. “You bet he will!” 
he declared. “He’s robbed me, too!” 

Mr. Link looked at Charley. His Irish eyes gleamed 
like polished agate. But he made no sound. He was 
waiting. 

“Sure they’re red?” queried Charley. “Let me have 
a close peek.” 

He reached over and picked up the box. He set it 
down — quite casually, it appeared — on the stack of bills. 
And then a transformation scene took place. So unex- 
pected was it that no one stirred. 

Charley flashed from his overcoat pocket a sprayer 
of the kind that florists use. With this he drenched the 
interior of the box with a colorless liquid, the force 
of the spray carrying it easily through the wire screen. 


160 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“There’s your blue fleas,” he grinned, shoving the box 
at Hogg. “Want me to make ’em red?” 

He took another sprayer from another pocket and held 
it up, laughing lightly. 

“Lock the door!” screeched Mr. Porkington’s confi- 
dential agent. 

Miss Amory sprang to obey, but Mr. Teeters got there 
first and pulled the door open. He was suddenly all 
awake. The girl clawed at him like a wildcat, and in 
return he caught her arms, whirled her about, and with 
a push sent her, most ungallantly, sprawling into the 
hall. He locked the door and leaned against it, blow- 
ing hard. He saw Mr. Hogg lying half on and half off 
the bed. The gentleman was motionless — dead to the 
gaieties a#d sorrows of this life. He had made a grab 
for the money on the table when Mr. Lawler screamed, 
and Mr. Link had cruelly tapped him on his poor weak 
heart. It putrhim soundly to sleep, and Charley gath- 
ered in the money. 

Only Mr. Nuckels and Mr. Lawler remained to be 
considered. Mr. Link’s disposition of Mr. Hogg had 
given them pause, but they wore an ugly look. 

“Which’ll you take, Joe?” sang out Charley joyously. 

The light of battle was in his eyes. 

“Both!” barked the fighting man. 

He stepped around the table toward them. 

“No you don’t!” retorted Charley. 

He placed a hand on the table and vaulted over it. 
As he landed he swung for Mr. Nuckels’s ribs, but Mr. 
Nuckels wasn’t there. He had backed away. Mr. 
Link, meanwhile, was working on Mr. Lawler, who 
showed a bit of science and got a left hook to the mid- 
dleweight’s ear. Mr. Link snorted in disgust, and made 
a rush for Mr. Lawler to finish him. Mr. Lawler, how- 


A BIT OF LEGERDEMAIN 


161 


ever, leaped aside, and as he did so whipped out a 
gun. 

“Keep off or I’ll let you have it !” he snarled. 

And then the confidential agent went down in a heap. 
Mr. Teeters had run forward when the fight began, and 
as Lawler spoke the secretary hurled the box of fleas 
smack into his mouth. 

“You will, will you?” he shrieked; and jumping on his 
fallen victim he wrenched the pistol from his nerveless 
grasp. 

“Good boy!” commented Mr. Link. 

Then he turned to Charley, for he was anxious to see 
how his pupil fared. 

Mr. Nuckels was putting up a nasty fight — like a cor- 
nered rat. He lacked science but he was foaming mad, 
and he lunged savagely at Charley. 

Charley was laughing happily. He danced about his 
man as if he were at a tango tea, and jabbed him al- 
most playfully. Then, suddenly, seeing the opening he 
sought, he stiffened up and sent his right like a mallet 
into the black-eyed gentleman’s alto-relievo stomach. 

That was the last of Mr. Nuckels’s immediate im- 
pressions of the combat. He gave a grunt, half turned, 
then fell heavily and rolled over on his back. 

“Fine work!” applauded Mr. Link. 

Charley glowed under the master’s praise, but he knew 
it was not the moment for felicitations. 

“Guess we’d better go,” he prompted. “Got to get to 
a bank.” 

They filed out, locking the door after them. The 
field of battle was left to the liberated fleas. Down- 
stairs they met the landlady. She had heard the rumpus 
and was a quivering mountain of jellied flesh. Miss 
Amory was nowhere to be seen. 


162 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Charley handed the agitated fat lady the key to 
Number Four. 

“Don’t disturb them/’ he advised her pleasantly. 
“Gentlemen taking a nap.” 

Charley was the first to break the silence as they 
rolled away uptown. 

“How about that trained nurse, Skeeters?” he asked, 
his eyes twinkling. “Blue-gingham sister?” 

“Huh!” retorted Mr. Teeters, “she’s trained all right. 
But I fooled her at the finish.” 

“You’re all to the good, Merciful, me lad,” said Mr. 
Link, emerging from a reverie which had engulfed him. 
“Charley, it’s a new stunt they tried to put across this 
time. I’ll own up they got me going. What put you 
next ?” 

“Nuckels’s call. Made me think. Then this,” was 
Charley’s answer. 

He pulled a rag from his pocket. It was about the 
size of a pocket-handkerchief. The body of it was 
covered with fine blue spots; in fact, as if it had been 
sprayed on. At one end, though, the spots were red. 

“Saw it in Hogg’s waste-basket Monday,” he ex- 
plained. “Copped it out. Made me think some more.” 

“Think of what?” demanded Mr. Teeters, who could 
see through a hole in a wall — if it were as big as the 
Battery. 

“Blue fleas,” said Charley. “Showed rag to a chem- 
ist. Told him what was up. Wised him right off.” 

Charley paused and grinned at Mr. Link. 

“Well?” persisted the pugilist. 

“Fleas were sprayed with litmus,” proceeded Charley. 
“Turned them blue. Acid turns the blue to red. Alkali 
turns the red to blue. Guessed the game then. Pad 


A BIT OF LEGERDEMAIN 


163 


}n humidor soaked in acid. Box tight. Moisture. Great 
scheme !” 

“Jumping Judas !” observed Mr. Teeters helplessly. 
“Suppose, Come-On, they tried that trick with ele- 
phants !” 

Mr. Link regarded Charley with undisguised delight. 
“By St. Patrick !” he chuckled. “You’ve picked up an- 
other pail of grease to make the wheels go ’round ! And 
it’s luck ye’ll be after calling it, I’m thinking — what? 
Just plain luck — nothing more, huh?” 

“Sure,” said Charley. 


CHAPTER XV 


THE WAY TO WALL STREET 

The fraternity of confidence men was hurt in its self- 
esteem. It was mortified and humiliated by the fiascos 
which had attended the best efforts of its star members 
to “hang something” on Come-On Charley. It was more 
than hurt: it was indignant to the point of holding a 
mass-meeting in Carnegie Hall, had the step been feasi- 
ble, to protest against the invasion of their established 
rights by a plain New Jersey boob. 

“Why,” the fraternity asked itself, “is this guy called 
Come-On Charley when he don’t come on? He stops 
too soon. Who hands him his cue to crab the coin?” 

It was this conundrum that got the goat — if we may so 
phrase it — of the embittered “con” men. Mr. Carter 
had acquired wealth and fame at their expense. The 
“Blue Flea” episode, which Teddy Ball featured in the 
Scream , had raised a shout from one end of Broadway 
to the other; a self-respecting bunco-steerer couldn’t 
walk that Primrose Path and hold his head up. 

And to make a bad matter worse, the newspapers ex- 
aggerated Come-On Charley’s winnings shockingly. 
They credited him with a quarter of a million dollars 
wrested from the industrious brotherhood, when the 
latter knew it was not half that much. In short, the 
status quo of the persuasive gentry was outrageous. It 
was unendurable. Reprisals were in order — something 
164 


THE WAY TO WALL STREET 


165 


to restore a shattered prestige. The nature of them, 
however, called for elaborate consideration, and mean- 
while Mr. Carter went blithely on his way. 

Two million dollars were coming to him, according to 
Mr. Drew, when his starter should have grown suf- 
ficiently, and in the interim he was not exactly running 
into debt. The world looked fairly good to him as he 
and Mr. Teeters went down to dinner in the Hotel Rire- 
bien one brisk November evening. It was Monday the 
14th, by the way — the beginning of a week which made 
copy for the newspapers and pulp of the effete argument 
that there’s no such thing as luck. 

Jean, the head waiter, conducted them to their table 
over in a corner by the window. This table was sacred 
to Mr. Carter’s use, for Jean was that young gentle- 
man’s slave, bound to him in chains of golden tips. 

“Say, Come-On, she’s here again!” whispered Mr. 
Teeters as they followed Jean across the room. 

“Stale stuff,” Charley answered. “Saw her first.” 

“She’s the goods, all right,” asserted Mr. Teeters. 
“They didn’t send her here by parcel-post. She flew 
down from a star.” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Venus.” 

He grinned at Mr. Teeters, who was feeling of his tie 
to make certain of its proper angle. 

They were inducted into their seats by Jean with sol- 
emn ceremony. When they had given their order to the 
waiter they glanced at the table abreast of theirs. 

A very pretty woman sat facing them. She was 
young and handsomely gowned, and she was alone. She 
had occupied the same seat the night before. Jean 
could tell why: she had picked it out and paid for it. 

This charming creature raised her eyes as Mr. Car- 
ter and his secretary looked at her. They were friendly 


166 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


eyes. One more skilled in women than either Mr. Car- 
ter or Mr. Teeters would have called them, also, com- 
petent eyes — eyes that knew their business and went 
about it. But the two young men saw only the friend- 
liness in them and were elated by it. 

She had not looked at them in that way the previous 
evening. She had kept her eyes on her plate and al- 
lowed them to feast upon her comeliness. But twenty- 
four hours make a difference. It engenders a neigh- 
borly feeling to dine two evenings in succession at com- 
panion tables. One may be permitted to show it — 
discreetly, of course. 

“Gee!” said Charley under his breath to Mr. Teeters. 
“Wish I knew her. Wonder who she is?” 

“Somebody’s darling with a return-ticket pinned in 
her sash,” commented Mr. Teeters sagely. “They marry 
that kind the day they’re born. Don’t take any chances.” 

“No ring on her finger,” demurred Charley. 

Mr. Teeters cackled scornfully. 

“Huh ! Some churches don’t wear a steeple, but 
they’re churches all the same.” 

They glanced at the lady again, and again her eyes 
met theirs. The flash of a humming-bird’s wing is not 
more evanescent than was the smile that curved her ripe 
red lips — but she smiled ! That was the point. 

Mr. Teeters sat up in his chair and straightened his 
dinner-jacket. He was glad he had put on the new 
crepe dress-shirt which had, in his own words, “set 
him back six bucks.” It became him to a miracle, his 
partial glass had told him, and now he was making a 
killing with it. A deuced good investment, if anybody 
asked ! 

Maybe she s out at grass,” he sibilantly suggested to 


THE WAY TO WALL STREET 


167 


Mr. Carter. “That’s the reason she ain’t wearing a 
license-tag.” 

Charley failed to catch him. 

“What?” he queried. 

“Divorced,” prompted Mr. Teeters. “Hole in the net 
and hubby swam out. She’s feeding on the alimony 
right now. Betcher.” 

Charley surveyed his secretary quizzically. 

“How will you find out?” he demanded. 

“Ask Jeen,” rejoined Mr. Teeters, who had a way 
of anglicizing names to suit his fancy. “He knows more 
about people than a horse about oats.” 

The head waiter was strolling by and Mr. Teeters sig- 
naled to him. 

“Say, Jeen,” he questioned guardedly, when the man 
came up. “Who is Little Dotty Dimples over there? 
Know her?” 

Jean put his hand to his mouth and leaned toward 
them confidentially. The lady at the other table noted 
the movement and smiled to herself. 

“Of a verity, yes,” said Jean smoothly. “She is a 
Miss Irene King, from Chicago. A buyer for Harshall, 
Beale & Company. Tres chic , eh?” 

He lifted his shoulders and spread out his hands in a 
gesture that could be interpreted as his audience pleased. 
The information he had imparted had been communi- 
cated to him by Miss King herself in one of those 
little bursts of confidence head waiters seem to in- 
spire in guileless guests. 

“You lose, Skeeters,” grinned Charley. 

“Oh, Chicago!” retorted Mr. Teeters. “I was betr 
ting on people who live in the United States.” 

It chanced that Charley looked in Miss Irene King’s 
direction as he taunted his discomfited secretary. There 


168 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


was something infectious in the boy's smile — something 
artless and disarming that warmed one to him willy- 
nilly. The young woman smiled back at him now quite 
openly ; and she reinforced it with a little good-humored 
nod that, to Charley, seemed to establish an under- 
standing between them. It made him flush with pleasure. 

Mr. Teeters missed this bit of by-play, and he was 
astonished when Charley said to the head waiter eagerly : 

“Jean, want to send the lady a glass of wine. Ask 
her.” 

The man imperturbably moved off on his errand. 

“Gollamighty, Come-On!” ejaculated Mr. Teeters. 
“You ought to take a nerve cure. It’ll get you if you let 
it run on like this.” 

“Wait!” was Charley’s sole reply to the playful out- 
break. , 

“Wait for what ?” Mr. Teeters begged to be informed. 

“The wine,” Charley answered him impassively. 

Jean came back. 

“The lady is charmed, sir,” he recited with the suave 
importance of his kind. “She begs me to say that she 
takes the New York papers at home and has read about 
you both. She knew you by your pictures.” 

“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Teeters. 

“She says,” went on the head waiter, “she will be de- 
lighted if you could find it to your pleasure to have your 
dinner served at her table.” 

Charley’s hazel eyes widened. This was something 
totally unlooked for and, by reason of it, captivating. 
He was clean-minded and straightforward in his ways, 
and the oddity of the invitation did not occur to him. 
It was one good fellow meeting another, and the more 
cause for self-gratulation that the other fellow hap- 
pened to be a most engaging girl. 


THE WAY TO WALL STREET 


169 


“By George !” he cried. “I guess yes! Come on, 
Percy !” 

He sprang up and with a beaming face crossed over 
to the other table. 

Mr, Teeters followed his chief, though not with 
marked alacrity. He was a little startled by the rapid 
sequence of events and, also, he was a trifle piqued at 
himself. Women were his peculiar province. They 
held no mystery for such as he. They were as trans- 
parent to his searching eye as the glass-cover to 
a dish of prunes. And here he had sat by like 
a tame toad under a bilberry-bush and let Charley get 
ahead of him! It set him back a peg in his own esti- 
mation, which is the crudest sort of setback a man 
can suffer. 

However, as he progressed with his dinner Mr. Tee- 
ters recovered his peace of mind. Miss King was a 
delightful companion. She had a way of deferring to 
one’s opinion that was as heady as the wine they drank. 
It made a chap realize that he cut some figure in af- 
fairs, and gave him a new respect for the mother that 
bore him. In fine, it made a fellow appreciate his worth 
at its proper value. 

“Do you know,” said the lady, after they had sounded 
the shallow well of small talk that strangers draw from 
in the first stages of acquaintance, “do you know I am 
tempted to tell you a secret, you two men of the world. 
I want your advice.” 

“Fine !” applauded Charley. “Percy’s long suit.” 

Mr. Teeters assumed what he imagined was a blase 
air, and remarked: 

“Shop’s open for business. If it’s on the shelf I’ll 
hand it down to you.” 

Miss King laughed. 


170 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“I don’t know what you will think of me,” she said, 
“but — well, I want to take a — what do you call it — a 
flier — yes, that’s it! I want to take a flier in Wall 
Street.” 

“Oh, Wall Street !” returned Mr. Teeters vaguely. He 
was out of his depth at the start. 

“Hope you won’t miss the money,” hinted Charley 
slyly. 

“But I have a tip !” Miss King avowed. “Boston Cop- 
per. It is going up, they say; or perhaps it’s going 
down ; I can’t seem to remember. Anyway, they are go- 
ing to do something to it and I thought I’d take a 
chance.” 

Mr. Teeters shook his head wisely. 

“Better not,” he cautioned. “Put it in a turkey raf- 
fle. Thanksgiving’s coming.” 

Miss King arched her brows at him. 

“You’re so quaint!” she laughed. “But, seriously, I 
want to make use of my tip. Only, you see, I don’t 
know just how to do it.” 

“Neither do we,” admitted Charley frankly. “Might 
as well own up, Skeeters.” 

Mr. Teeters wiggled his mustache and smiled pain- 
fully. He hated to acknowledge ignorance. 

“You got me up a tree,” he conceded. “I’m climb- 
ing down.” 

“Dear me, how funny!” trilled the young woman. 
“We’re all in the woods together. I could ask Gitt & 
Gott, I suppose. They are the brokers recommended to 
me — a very reliable house. But I dislike the idea of 
going down there; it — it is so public! And besides I’m 
frightfully busy during the day.” 

She sipped her wine with a tiny puzzled frown that 
became her mightily. 


THE WAY TO WALL STREET 


171 


“By George ! Say !” cried Charley, responding to the 
frown. “We’ll see Gitt & Gott for you. In the morning. 
Find out what to do.” 

“Oh, would you?” Miss King’s voice fluttered witch- 
ingly. “Wouldn’t it be too much trouble?” 

Charley grinned across the table at his secretary. 

“Hear that, Skeeters? ‘Trouble!’” 

Mr. Teeters, finding himself unbelittled by his con- 
fession, replied with spirit. 

“How do you spell it?” he requested earnestly. “Don’t 
know what it means.” 

“You’re too delightful for anything!” gurgled Miss 
King. “Both of you! I do so want to make a little 
money out of Boston Copper!” 

“What’s the bet?” inquired Mr. Teeters indulgently. 
“A ten-spot?” 

“Ten dollars?” The lady looked amazed. “Why — 
I’m going to put a thousand dollars in it!” 

Mr. Teeters gasped, and goggled at her. 

“Merry Moses! Going to buy the junk and take it 
home with you?” 

Miss King laughed again. 

“I’m going to margin it — I think that’s what they call 
it. You put up so much money and wait a while — only 
a day sometimes — then they pay you what it wins.” 

“Sounds simple,” said Charley. 

“Oh, it’s awfully simple!” agreed Miss King gaily. 
“Gitt & Gott will explain it to you. I will give you a 
check for them after dinner — a New York draft. Could 
you meet me in the parlor at half-past eight?” 

“Could we? We’ll look like we were growing there,” 
Mr. Teeters assured her gallantly. 

There came an interruption. Someone in passing 
paused and tapped Charley on the shoulder. 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


il7£ 

“Hello, sport! Hello, Merciful !” saluted this person 
airily. “What are they quoting blue fleas at to-day ?” 

Charley looked up with a grin. A slim young fellow 
with clear blue eyes grinned back at him. It was the 
sporting editor of the Evening Scream. The baseball 
magnates were assembled in annual conference at the 
Rirebien, and Mr. Ball had been dining with one of 
them. 

“Teddy!” Charley’s voice rang with pleased surprise. 
“By George! Luck! Sit down. Miss King, Teddy 
Ball. Knows everything.” 

The lady acknowledged the introduction without sig- 
nal enthusiasm. Mr. Ball’s eyes were bold and his 
manner was assured. A pretty woman likes to be ap- 
proached with deference. 

“What do you want to know, little boy?” queried the 
sporting editor easily. “They came to me when they 
wrote the cyclopedia.” 

“Got a tip. Wall Street. Boston Copper,” Charley 
told him. “Don’t know what to do with it.” 

“Let it alone,” promptly counseled Mr. Ball. 

He shot a keen glance at Miss King. It may have 
carried with it a ray of suspicion which she felt, for she 
said to him coldly: 

“It is my tip. I don’t understand the ways of the 
stock market and was asking Mr. Carter to enlighten 
me.” 

“Oh!” said Mr. Ball. 

“She’s got a thousand beans to spill,” interjected Mr. 
Teeters to clarify the situation. 

“Oh!” said Mr. Ball again. 

“What does she do with the wampum, Teddy?” per- 
sisted Mr. Teeters. 

"Hand it to a broker and begin to save again,” re- 


THE WAY TO WALL STREET 


173 


turned the Scream man. “I had a tip once and didn’t 
get over it for a year.” 

“How unfortunate !” condoled Miss King. There was 
a touch of irony in her tone. “You wouldn’t advise me, 
then, to try my luck — not with a perfectly good tip? 
From the inside?” 

“They’re all from the inside,” Mr. Ball rejoined with 
a good-natured laugh. “But you want to know what to 
do with your thousand? All right. It will margin a 
hundred shares of Copper ten points. If you buy you’ll 
make a hundred dollars for every point Copper goes up. 
If you sell you’ll make the same for every point it drops. 
It’s only a little matter of getting in and getting out. 
If you guess right you can’t go wrong. Easy as count- 
ing the bristles in a brush.” 

“Thank you so much!” said the lady with a mocking 
smile. “Nothing could be clearer.” She rose as she 
spoke. “I must be going now. No, please don’t!” as 
the young men stood up. “Really,” she laughed, “I 
am perfectly able to find the door. Finish your cigars.” 

For a moment she let her eyes linger on Charley’s. 
They held a question. “Half-past eight?” they said, and 
Charley, reading the question but lacking skill in wire- 
less telegraphy, semaphored the answer. It was a wink, 
honest and hearty as himself. 

Miss King turned, a little hastily, and swept down the 
room. Mr. Ball watched her go. 

“Where did you meet mother ?” he inquired pleasantly. 

“ ‘Mother?’ Oh, I say, Teddy!” protested Mr. Carter. 

“Why, you kid,” hooted the other, “she’s six laps 
ahead of you if she’s a minute. Thirty in the shade! 
What’s the game, anyway?” 

Charley told him how they had met, and the program 
for the morning. 


174 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Look here/’ said Mr. Ball, when he had the story, 
“you keep away from Wall Street, Mr. Come-On Char- 
ley! Don’t mix with it. These con men you’ve been 
playing horse with are baby dolls when you stack ’em 
up against that bunch in Slaughter Alley. They’ll take 
your little trot covers off and send you home barefoot. 
It’s a gamble if they’d let you off that easy — you’d make 
good soap fat if they boiled you down.” 

“Take a twist around yourself, Teddy!” admonished 
Mr. Teeters. “You’re coming loose. We ain’t going for 
ourselves; we’re going for a friend.” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Information.” 

Mr. Ball studied the two through a haze of smoke. 
Then he asked — 

“Ever see a tout?” 

“What does it look like?” Mr. Teeters wanted to 
know. 

“Sometimes,” said Mr. Ball slowly, “it looks like one 
thing and sometimes like another. And it bites ! Hello ! 
There’s Mack of the Nationals hailing me from the 
door. See you later.” 

He went away and left them to their reflections. 

“Wonder what he meant?” pondered Charley. 

“Huh!” sniffed Mr. Teeters. “His wheels want wind- 
ing up. He doesn’t know they’ve stopped.” 

With this he pushed back his chair. Charley did the 
same. Then, as with one accord, they sauntered off in 
the direction of the parlor stairs. 


CHAPTER XVI 

TICKLING THE TIGER 

Mr. Carter's flaming-red touring-car stood before Gitt 
& Gott’s margin-shop down where the cypress grows. 
It was half-past ten on Tuesday. Mr. Carter and Mr. 
Teeters were inside in Mr. Gott’s private office. Mr. 
Gitt was not about, but Mr. Gott had received them, 
when he learned their names, as if they were nearer 
to him than his relatives — a statement which, perhaps, 
the esteemed reader will know how properly to appraise. 

Mr. Gott was a little lean man of a most benevolent 
aspect, due principally to a set of antique and luxuriant 
Burnsides which he kept carefully trimmed and combed. 
These whiskers were an asset of the firm which did 
not appear in its balance sheet. 

The broker had gone to some pains to explain the 
technicalities — or shall we call it technic — of stock-trad- 
ing to his visitors. When he was through it was as clear 
to Mr. Teeters as the fourth dimension, or the fifth 
problem in Euclid. 

Charley was but little better off. The one lucid im- 
pression that remained with both — and which Mr. Gott 
saw to — was that until now they had criminally ne- 
glected to enrich themselves at the expense of a lot of 
prominent but imbecile financiers. 

“Great game!" said Charley. “But what about Cop- 
per? Better buy? Miss King left it to me.” 

175 


176 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


He produced the lady’s draft and passed it over to 
the broker. Mr. Gott centered a fatherly smile on him. 

“Now you have asked a question, my dear Mr. Car- 
ter,” he purred, “that I really ought not to answer. We 
cannot undertake to advise our customers. It wouldn’t 
do, you know. Our business is simply to execute or- 
ders and take our modest commission — one-eighth of one 
per cent. I may say this, though. Copper is active — 
quite so — and it looks to me — understand, I am speaking 
for myself, not the house — it looks to me a good buy.” 

“All right,” decided Charley. “Buy.” 

Mr. Gott pushed a button. A dapper young man 
came in from the outer office, and to this spruce person 
the broker confided Miss King’s check. 

“One hundred Boston Copper, Albert, at the market. 
Buy,” instructed Mr. Gott. “What is it now?” 

“Ninety-seven and a half.” 

“Hum,” mused Mr. Gott. “Opened at 96^. Looks 
well for a quick turn. Sell at par, Albert.” 

Albert hurried out. Mr. Gott lavished his paternal 
smile on Charley. 

“Ladies like quick profits,” he observed with a hu- 
morous shrug. “We’ll get the stock around 98. If it 
continues to climb your friend will make, say, a hun- 
dred and seventy-five dollars on the turn. A seventeen 
and a half per cent, dividend on a thousand-dollar in- 
vestment — and possibly in the next half-hour. Not bad, 
eh, for car-fares and matinees?” 

“Come-On!” cried Mr. Teeters. “Get aboard! You’re 
losing money!” 

Mr. Gott coughed gently behind his hand. Not for 
worlds would he have uttered a word just then. The 
equilibrium was too nice. 


TICKLING THE TIGER 


177 


“Call that chap,” said Charley, and taking out his 
check-book he filled in a blank. 

Albert appeared promptly. Time is a factor in a 
margin-shop. 

“Got it at 9834,” he announced without waiting to 
be questioned. 

“Buy another chunk,” requested Charley. 

He handed his check to Mr. Gott. That gentleman 
started as he glanced at it, but covered his surprise with 
a cough; the check was for ten thousand dollars. He 
spoke out sharply: 

“Ten hundred Boston Copper, Albert. Sell at ?” 

He looked at Charley. 

“Let her run a while,” replied Mr. Carter carelessly. 
“No hurry.” 

Albert vanished. Mr. Gott turned to the telephone 
and called up the bank. 

“Matter of form,” he apologized. “My partner, you 
know. For myself ” 

The bank answered, and presently Mr. Gott hung up 
the receiver with a satisfied air. 

“Good as gold. I knew it, of course, but Gitt is fussy 
about these things. Suppose we take a look at the 
board — see how things are going?” 

“Bully,” said Charley. “New game. Fun.” 

They went out into the boardroom. Tickers were buz- 
zing and telegraph keys clicking merrily. There was 
a big blackboard at one end of the room with a narrow 
gangway traversing the bottom of it. A youth in shirt- 
sleeves was running to and fro on this track chalking 
down figures sung out to him by a man at one of the 
tickers. 

Before the board were rows of chairs. Most of them 
were occupied. After a long period of depression the 


178 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


market had begun to pick up; it “showed tone/’ as the 
patter goes. It was rumored that the President’s forth- 
coming message to the Congress would declare a truce 
in the war with the Big Interests; they had been chas- 
tised sufficiently for the present. 

And the small fry in Wall Street live on rumors. 
They are Bulls or Bears according to the point the rumor 
blows from — jumping in and out of the market with the 
alacrity of acrobats. It all helps to keep the big fel- 
lows’ limousines in gasoline. 

The traders looked around when Mr. Gott came in 
with his young friends. It meant something when “Old 
Whiskers” played the part of cicerone. They pricked 
up their ears, and Mr. Gott talked for their benefit with- 
out appearing to do so. A word well placed might make 
business at the desk. 

“Where’s Boston Copper?” asked Charley when his 
guide had finished explaining the symbols on the board. 

Mr. Gott pointed to a column toward the left. 

“There. See the letters BC at the head?” 

At this moment, as it happened, the man at the ticker 
called out — 

“Boston Copper, 99.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Gott. “You bought at 98^. 
Five hundred dollars in ten minutes. Not bad at all. 
Your — er — tip seems to have come pretty straight.” 

“Merry Moses !” chirruped Mr. Teeters. “Fifty bones 
a minute! What’s the use of working?” 

“Soft!” said Charley. 

One of the traders got up and slid over to the desk. 

“Boston Copper 99^ — y A — y 2 ,” droned the ticker 
man. 

Two of the traders got up and followed the first. 


TICKLING THE TIGER 


179 


Something was doing in Copper. This round-faced boy- 
had a tip, sure enough. 

“American Can, 31^ ; U. S. Steel, 64^ ; Erie, 46,” 
proclaimed the man. Then he added — Boston Copper, 
100 y&—y2—H” 

There was a stampede now to the desk. 

“Twenty-two hundred and fifty dollars to your credit, 
Mr. Carter,” the broker purred. “And your friend has 
made her pin money. We sold for her at par, you 
know — 100.” 

Mr. Teeters was trembling with excitement. 

“Say, Gott!” he piped, dispensing with the clogging 
formality of a title. “You barked too soon. Can’t you 
keep the wheel spinning for her? Look at that!” 

The youth at the blackboard was marking Copper up 
to 101. Mr. Gott smiled on the agitated secretary. 

“It is better to play safe with the ladies, my boy,” he 
said to him soothingly. “This may be only a flurry. 
The stock may sag back again. Come into the office. 
We will have Miss King’s statement and check made 
out. And perhaps, Mr. Carter, you had better take your 
profit.” 

Mr. Gott was anxious to send his new client away a 
winner. First-time winners come again; losers some- 
times stay out altogether. 

“Guess not,” Charley answered him. “Make or break. 
Let her go.” 

“You mean, of course, until the close to-day?” sug- 
gested the broker. 

“Right,” said Charley. “Till the cows come home.” 

Mr. Gott slowly wagged his head from side to side. 

“You can’t tell what will happen ” 

“Sure,” broke in Charley cheerfully. “That’s the fun 
of it.” 


180 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


When, a little later, they came out to their car Char- 
ley carried in his pocket a check for Miss King in the 
sum of $1,148.61. Mr. Gott had subtracted — and ex- 
plained it to them carefully — $24.75 f° r commissions, 
buying and selling, and $1.64 interest charge for carry- 
ing the account. Charley also brought away with him a 
stock list on which Mr. Gott had kindly marked for 
reference a few promising industrial and railroad se- 
curities. 

As Mr. Carter and his secretary emerged from the 
margin-shop they came face to face with Mr. Samuel 
Drew. The portly advocate stopped short. Surprise 
bordering on consternation settled on his florid visage. 

“Hello ! What does this mean ?” he rapped out. 

Charley grinned at him. 

“Seeing New York. Tickling the tiger.” 

Mr. Drew frowned but made no direct reply. Instead 
he asked — 

“Where are you going now?” 

“Uptown,” Charley told him. 

“Got a bag of Copper bullets for a lady,” appended 
Mr. Teeters waggishly. 

“I’ll ride with you,” decreed the lawyer. 

He had no smile for Mr. Teeters’s pleasantry. His 
frown deepened, rather. He stepped into the red car 
and sat down heavily — with the air of one whose mind 
is weighted with grave concern. He had begun to feel 
pride in Come-On Charley’s success. It relieved him to 
know that the millionaire he had created out of nothing 
in a moment’s whimsy had got together a really pretty 
fortune. When the inevitable end to his prank should 
come, this fact would tell in his favor and ease the fric- 
tion. It would pass the thing off into the realm of good 
jokes, to be recounted to applause at many a gleeful 


TICKLING THE TIGER 


181 


dinner-table. Besides, he liked the boy — confound him! 
And here he was pottering around among the petty 
thieves in Wall Street! 

Mr. Drew was stirred from his usual poise; the quiet 
irony of speech on which he plumed himself deserted 
him. 

“Who is this woman you speak of?” he demanded 
bluntly as they drove off. “Where did you come across 
her — and how?” 

Charley told the story. 

“So you played commissioner for a pretty fool who 
wants to lose her money?” grumbled Mr. Drew. 

“But she's won!” expostulated Mr. Teeters. “We’re 
toting home the bacon to her now.” 

“Ugh !” The lawyer shrugged his impatience. “That’s 
her misfortune.” 

“And Come-On’s won!” persisted Mr. Teeters resent- 
fully. “He’s twenty-five hundred to the good — and it’s 
going up!” 

“What?” Mr. Drew shifted around on the seat and 
stared at Charley. This was calamitous news. 

“Took a shot,” admitted Mr. Carter tranquilly. “Thou- 
sand shares. Boston Copper.” 

Mr. Drew groaned. 

“Oh, Lord! He’s hooked! They’ll land him for his 
pile!” He turned savagely on Charley. “So — you’re 
twenty-five hundred to the good, are you?” he sneered. 
“And it’s going up? Take off your hat and let me see 
your ears. They must be going up, too — Midas ears — 
long and pointed. In short, my good young friend — 
ass’s ears!” 

Charley felt of his ears with every appearance of 
solicitude. 


182 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Seem the same,” he asserted soberly. “And hear the 
same. Go on.” 

“Thanks,” retorted the attorney. “It is exactly what 
I intend to do. You’re to the good, you say, in this 
deal you’ve tumbled into. But it’s not cash. It’s paper 
profit. It wouldn’t buy you a plate of hash if you were 
starving. You’ve bucked up at last against a game, my 
boy, that will smash you like a gnat under a hammer. 
You may pull off a play or two, but in the end it will 
leave you flat — without a dime to pay the grave-digger. 
Cut it out, Charley. Now!” 

Mr. Teeters chafed under this advice to his chief. 
He wiggled his mustache distressfully. 

“But he’s picked a winner! It’s going up!” he con- 
tended. 

Mr. Drew fixed him with a baleful glare. 

“He’s picked a winner!” he mimicked. “Oh, he has? 
Let me hand you a hard, cold fact, Mr. Merciful Skeeters 
— right off the ice: if you dumped all the stocks on 
’Change into a bag and shut your eyes and pulled 
out one you’d stand a better chance to make a killing 
than if you used that bit of bric-a-brac you’ve got 
screwed on to you between the shoulders.” 

Mr. Teeters hastily retired into himself to digest this 
piece of information. Mr. Carter also appeared to 
ponder it. Indeed, he seemed to be impressed by it. 
Noting this, Mr. Drew resorted to diplomacy. 

“Don’t force your luck, Charley,” he entreated. 
“You’ve had a lot of it. Let well enough alone. If you 
drop your pile, what then — eh — what then?” 

“Have to make a touch,” responded Charley staidly. 
“Uncle Bill’s two million.” 

Mr. Drew was seized with a sudden spasm of cough- 


TICKLING THE TIGER 


183 

ing. Charley regarded him with inscrutable eyes until 
it passed. 

“Your starter !” sputtered the crimson-faced solicitor. 
“You forgot that. You’ve got to make it grow.” 
“How much?” Charley asked. 

Mr. Drew coughed again. 

“Oh, to a million,” he answered irritably. “A million. 
And here you are dabbling in stocks ! I hope to heaven 
the bottom will drop out of this infernal Copper. It 
might wake you up.” 

“Gee!” grinned Charley. “Cheerful friend. Bet I 
win. Bet a hundred even. 

“Oh, hang it, what’s the use !” shouted the exasperated 
man. “Here! Stop this car! I’ll have a fit if I keep 
on. Stop it, I say!” 

Billy, the driver, swerved up to the curb and Mr. 
Drew stepped down. 

“Come around to-night,” Charley invited him, still 
grinning. “Dinner. Celebrate.” 

“You confounded jackanapes, I’ll do just that thing!” 
fumed the lawyer, shaking his fist at him. “And I hope 
I’ll find you sitting in sackcloth and ashes sniveling over 
the wine!” 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE POOL IN PAPER COLLARS 

Mr. Drew was hobnobbing with Mr. Teddy Ball. They 
were in Mr. Carter's sitting-room, and the hour was 
eight o’clock of a Monday evening. It was the Monday 
following that on which this truthful tale began. 

Mr. Carter and his secretary were at dinner and his 
friends were waiting for him. They had the run of his 
rooms, as had any one with a passport to Mr. Carter’s 
confidence. 

The lawyer and the newspaper man had come to know 
each other well in the past week. They were expecting 
Mr. Link to join them. He had not missed a night in 
Charley’s rooms since Wednesday. Neither, for that mat- 
ter, had Mr. Drew nor Mr. Ball. They were drawn 
there by the irresistible magnet of an overwhelming 
curiosity, and on Mr. Ball’s part by the further drag of 
an insatiable thirst for “copy.” 

A stock-ticker in the corner was one of the poles of 
this magnet, and Charley himself was the other. Be- 
tween the two there had been the dickens to pay since 
the day Boston Copper closed at 107^4 and then tobog- 
ganed down to 98, where it still remained, or there- 
abouts, as if a nail had been driven through it. 

Charley had cleaned up on that deal nine thousand 
dollars, less a trifle of two hundred and seventy odd 
dollars, commission and interest, retained by the fatherly 
184 


THE POOL IN PAPER COLLARS 189 


Mr. Gott. The next day the ticker was installed in his 
apartments and things began to happen. The newspa- 
pers shrieked the news abroad, and soon they were call- 
ing him “Cash-In Charley” instead of “Come-On.” 

Miss King, it should be mentioned, departed from the 
Rirebien when she received her check from Gitt & Gott. 
She told Charley she had been invited to stay with 
friends, but gave him no address. She would, she, had 
said, send it to him later if by any happy chance she 
should get another tip. 

So, tipless and alone, Charley ran amuck in Wall Street. 
The market was strong and he plunged into it like a 
bucking bronco. Rumor had it that he played a system. 
He dealt in five-thousand-share lots at first, and he picked 
only one security a day, closing it out with the market. 
Some he bought and some he sold; it didn’t seem to 
make a particle of difference. Luck walked with a pro- 
tecting arm around him and slept with him overnight. 

In three days he kicked loose from a like number of 
securities $95,000, and, what is more, brought it home 
with him. On Saturday, a short day, he pulled down 
$20,000. On this present day — Monday — he had raised 
his limit to ten thousand shares, and he gathered in 
$70,000. He was playing on velvet and was to the 
good something like $188,000 of Wall Street money. 

As they sat companionably together Mr. Drew and 
Mr. Ball were casting back over these events. 

“I can’t understand it,” complained the first. “It has 
got on my nerves. I’m losing flesh over it. How can a 
mere boy who doesn’t know a debenture bond from an 
Irish dividend size up the market? It’s uncanny, Ball, 
I tell you !” 

Mr. Ball pulled fretfully on the fat cigar Mr. D'rew 
had passed to him and observed: 


186 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“He’s got my nanny all right. There’s a corking story 
lying around these premises somewhere and I can’t put 
my hand on it. I crabbed the job from Miller — he’s our 
financial man — and he’s getting sore because I don’t 
clean up. But if Charley won’t talk to me, he won’t 
to Miller; and as for that wiredrawn skeleton, Teeters, 
he wouldn’t know the house was afire till it singed his 
whiskers.” 

“It can’t go on,” declared the lawyer. “It’s bound to 
get him. It always does. I’ve begged him to get out 
and salt his profits, but he only ” 

“Grins!” supplied Mr. Ball. “I know — may the devil 
take him! I’d like some one to tell me how he picked 
out C. D. & Q. to win to-day. The White House spiel 
boosted things, of course, but that stock, Miller says, 
hasn’t budged two points either way since the late J. P. 
pumped it full of Croton juice. And, look at Richmond 
Rails last Friday: you’d have thought somebody kicked 
it, the way it jumped !” 

“He went short on Panama Gas,” Mr. Drew reminded 
him. 

“Sure ! And some one stuck a pin in it and let it out.” 

“Find the girl. Maybe she can tell how he does it.” 

It was Mr. Link who spoke. He had stepped in quiet- 
ly and was contemplating the pair with earnest eyes. 

“Bosh!” flung back the Scream man at him rudely. 
“She don’t know anything. She played her hand and 
lit out.” 

“Good luck go with her!” invoked Mr. Link devoutly. 
“Faith, she played it dummed well. I’m looking for a 
capful myself of all this small change she started com- 

• _ f) 

mg. 

“Oh, Lord!” wailed the lawyer. “He’s hooked, too!” 

Mr. Ball was staring at the box-fighter curiously. 


THE POOL IN PAPER COLLARS 187 


“What’s the idea, Joseph?” he inquired. 

Mr. Link sat down and crossed his legs with the de- 
liberation that characterized his unprofessional move- 
ments. 

“When they’re cutting melons I like to be around,” 
he stated. “I’ve got the price of a small slice in my 
pocket.” 

“Oho!” cried Mr. Ball. “A pool! That’s the bee in 
your bonnet!” 

“It is,” acknowledged Mr. Link with gravity. “And 
the mate to it is in yours, me laddy-buck. I can hear it 
buzzing.” 

Mr. Ball’s reply was arrested by the entrance of Mr. 
Carter and his secretary. Mr. Carter evinced unusual 
pleasure at seeing the reporter. 

“Good boy, Teddy !” he exclaimed. “Was thinking of 
you. Want you to write an ad for me. All the morning 
papers.” 

“What’s up?” Mr. Drew asked. “Going to tip the 
public off?” 

He tried to make his tone cuttingly sarcastic, but 
failed. He would not confess it, but the boy’s phenome- 
nal luck, or whatever it should be called, had affected 
him — infected is perhaps the better word. 

“He wants to advertise for ‘mother,’ ” put in Mr. 
Teeters with a leer at Mr. Ball. “Home is not the same 
since mother went away.” 

“Drop it!” commanded Charley. “Say something like 
this, Teddy: Boston Copper lady. Dined at Rirebien, 
Monday 14th. Want to see her. Her advantage. 
Charley.” 

Mr. Link looked wise and nodded at Mr. Drew. Mr. 
Ball pretended not to see it, yet he refrained from put- 
ting into words a question his lips had framed; there 


188 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


was that in the set of Mr. Carter’s mouth which made 
him class it as an extra-hazardous risk. In lieu of it he 
said: 

“I get you, Charles. I’ll make a classic of the ad. 
She’ll come like the swallows homeward fly. Say,” he 
added hurriedly, “Joe here wants to dip his beak in your 
porridge.” 

“Huh! He won’t die alone. There’s a million like 
him,” commented Mr. Teeters. 

“Lay down, ye spalpeen — roll over and play dead!” 
growled the ex-champion. “The little monkey-man from 
the Scream is right, Charley, me lad. I’ve a thousand 
I want you to invest for me. I need the money. 

“He needs a commission de lunatico inquirendo,” 
amended Mr. Drew. “Somebody ought to tell his friends 
about him.” 

“Risky, Joe,” objected Charley. “Luck. May change 
to-morrow.” 

“Luck, d’ye call it!” scoffed Mr. Link. “All right. 
Hand me a sample and I’ll eat it. Am I on ?” 

“Sure,” agreed Charley. “Game old sport. Hope we 
win.” 

“I’ve got five hundred,” drawled Mr. Ball, endeavor- 
ing to appear unconcerned. “I was going to buy a 
diamond, but ” 

“Bless the saints, I called him !” guffawed the middle- 
weight. “I saw it in his eye!” 

“Anybody else?” queried Charley. He looked at Mr. 
Drew and grinned. “Lend you a thousand,” he offered. 

The lawyer’s face grew purple with confusion. He 
was stampeded and he knew it. He had felt himself 
going from the first. To tell the plain truth, he was 
itching to get his finger in the pie, and had been for 


THE TOOL IN PAPER COLLARS 189 


several days. To cover his surrender he roared out 
now : 

“Damme, sir, do you think I’m a pauper? Put me 
down for five thousand dollars. If you lose it !” 

“Take it out of Uncle Bill’s two million,” Charley 
suggested to him blandly, and turned to Mr. Teeters. 
“Coming in, Skeet?” he asked. 

“On what?” demanded the secretary dolefully. “Wind? 
I ain’t saved a cent, Come-On. A dip won’t even look 
at me when I come along. He’s afraid I’ll try to borrow 
off him!” 

“You’re down for five hundred,” Charley told him. 
“Take it out of your pay. Stow it!” — as Mr. Teeters 
essayed a tremulous reply. 

“What’s the cue?*’ questioned Mr. Ball, now all eager- 
ness. “What are you going to play to-morrow?” 

“U. S. Paper Collars,” said Charley. 

“Closed at 71 %. Gain of two points.” 

Mr. Drew proclaimed this, and instantly bit his lip. 
He had been studying stocks, it seemed. 

“By Jove!” ejaculated Mr. Ball. “Miller said to-day 
Collars were due for a rise. How do you do it, Char- 
ley? Put me hep, for the love of beans!” 

“Dream it,” said Charley. “Come around to-morrow. 
At the close. See the fun. Going to push the button 
for twenty-seven thousand shares.” 

Mr. Ball sprang clean out of his chair. He had done 
a lightning sum in mental arithmetic. 

“What?” he yelled. “A one-hundred-and-ninety-four- 
thousand-dollar margin ?” 

“Seven of it yours — you chaps,” Charley answered. 
“Rest, velvet. Winnings.” 

He grinned again at Mr. Drew; but that plump per- 


190 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


son was gasping like a stranded fish. Apoplexy hov- 
ered near him. 

Early the next morning Charley was closeted with 
Old Whiskers. He had slipped away from Mr. Teeters 
and whirled downtown alone in the big red car. It 
took him just three minutes to place his order with the 
broker and give instructions. He was leaving now. 

“Gone to the country. Don’t talk,” he enjoined. 
Clam. Shut tight. No questions answered. So long. 
Will phone.” 

He walked out followed by Mr. Gott’s worshiping 
eyes. He had made the firm famous. 

“Jake’s Road House, Billy,” Charley said. And in 
this manner he buried himself, as far as one may in 
Manhattan, from the ken of men. 

Collars opened within an eighth of the close. Then, 
for some reason, it fell off a point at a time to 66. It 
hung around this mark for a while when it gradually 
recovered and crept up to 70. It stayed there; that is, 
it stayed there until one o’clock, when a flash came over 
the ticker. It read — 

President Owen, U. S. Paper Collars, blows brains 
out in private office. 

Collars wilted. It dropped and dropped until it reg- 
istered 62^4. Then came another flash — at one-thirty- 
five: 


Paper Collars. Huge defalcation suspected. Owen 
short big line of stocks. 

Newspaper extras added to the rout. The very but- 
tonholes fell out of Collars as it tumbled down ; and sev- 


THE POOL IN PAPER COLLARS 191 


eral correlated stocks took a dangerous slant. It was a 
merry day in the bear-pit. 

But uptown, in Charley's rooms, there was no great 
show of merry-making. As the news of the break in 
Collars gained ground Mr. Drew and Mr. Link rushed 
from their respective habitats to the Rirebien. They 
met in the lobby and went up in company. They found 
only a distracted secretary hopping about the room and 
wiggling his mustache to the point of parting with it 
altogether. 

“Where's the boy?” hurled Mr. Link at him. 

“Wh — where is he?” stuttered Mr. Drew, who was 
quite off his center. “Gitt & Gott don't know, they 
say !” 

“Gollamighty !” shrieked Mr. Teeters. “Don’t ask 
me ! I been looking for him everywhere. He’s took the 
car and went. And I smashed the phone. It wore me 
out. Gollamighty ! Gollamighty ! Five hundred dollars !” 

He resumed his caperings ; from the look of it he 
might have been practicing a new kind of One-Step. 
Mr. Drew and Mr. Link were hanging over the tape. 
They fed it through their fingers slowly, as if it were 
coated with glue. They couldn’t tear themselves away 
from it. It possessed them with a horrible fascination, 
as might a squid winding its sticky arms around their 
bodies. 

“We were wiped out long ago!” mourned the lawyer. 
“Lord, Lord ! Look at it — S 2 H !” 

“Maybe he sold on the break,” suggested Mr. Link 
hopefully. “That would save us something.” 

This stray straw to grasp at was swept away by the 
entrance of Mr. Teddy Ball. He sauntered in, a cigar 
stuck rakishly in his mouth. It was perfectly evident 


192 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


that he was trying to die game, though no one present 
cared how he did it. They were already dead. 

“It's all over but the flowers !” he jauntily declaimed. 
“Charley’s in the country — I wormed that much out of 
Gott — and it’s two-fifty! Relatives and friends only. 
Interment private.” 

“Helafire !” croaked Mr. Teeters. “I got to work for 
nothing for two months!” 

“Take a bath,” Mr. Ball advised him. “It’ll cool you 
off.” 

Whether Mr. Teeters would have acted on this friend- 
ly counsel cannot be said, for the door opened and Mr. 
Carter strode in, fresh and rosy from his ride home. 

And he was grinning! 

The others regarded him as if a grimacing specter 
had popped up through the floor. 

“Hello, folks !” Charley greeted them. “Fine up the 
river to-day.” 

Mr. Drew gazed around at the company. 

“He doesn’t know !” he muttered. 

He tried to say more, but could not. Mr. Teeters 
could, however, and did. 

“Come-On!” he squealed. “You’ve ruined us! I got 
to work ” 

“Shut up — you!” barked Mr. Link. “Charley me 
boy, don’t mind him. We’ve got a jitney or two left 
among us yet.” 

“Yes, it’s all right, Charley,” supplemented Mr. Drew 
with an effort. “But I hope this will teach you ” 

“Hold on !” interposed Mr. Ball, who was studying the 
grin which still showed broadly on Mr. Carter’s face. 
“I believe — by Jove! — Say! — We took it for granted 
Charley was going long on Collars, but ” 


THE POOL IN PAPER COLLARS 193 


“Went short,” said Charley. “Thought I’d keep you 
guessing. Fun.” 

“Gracious heavens !” shouted Mr. Drew. 

He lunged over to the ticker, but Mr. Ball was al- 
ready there; so was Mr. Link. 

“51 called out the reporter. i(l / 2 — yi — 50 1” 

“Brace up, Skeeters!” Charley adjured the dazed sec- 
retary. “You win. Twelve hundred, anyway. Maybe 
more. Got to figure some.” 

A knock was given at the door. Charley opened it — 
and looked into Miss King’s half-anxious, half-defiant 
eyes. The housekeeper was with her, playing chaperon. 

“By George !” cried Charley gleefully. 

“I saw your 'personal’ — by chance — just an hour ago,” 
faltered Miss King. “I tried to telephone, but ” 

“Come in !” interrupted Charley. “Got something for 
you. Gee! Afraid I’d lost you!” 

He caught her hands and drew her in. The house- 
keeper followed. 

“Closed at 48^2 !” whooped Mr. Ball. “Bow-wow !” 

He struck hands with Mr. Drew and the ex-champion, 
and they girdled Mr. Teeters and performed a dance 
around that agitated gentleman, in which the portly ad- 
vocate threw dignity to the dogs. He was a winner, 
roughly reckoned, to the tune of twelve thousand 
dollars. 

“You’ve won — again!” exclaimed Miss King. “Oh, 
I’m so glad!” 

“Owe it to you,” Charley told her. “Wait!” 

He sat down at the table and wrote a check. The 
dance ceased suddenly. Something new was happening. 

“Got my line in Collars from 71 to 66,” explained 
Charley to the lady. “Cleaned up over half a million. 


194 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Owe it to you. Started me. Want to make you a 
present. Only fair.” 

He handed her the check. She looked at it and burst 
into tears. 

“Five thousand dollars ! Oh, I can’t take it — I can’t !” 
she sobbed. “You don’t know. It wasn’t a tip; they 
guessed at it. And it was Gott’s money. He paid me 


“Shoot Gott!” cut in Charley fiercely, to hide his em- 
barrassment. “Forget him. I’m through with him. Last 
deal. All done. Take the five and — er — and — er ” 

He halted lamely. 

“Yes, I will! I will!” whimpered the young woman. 
“I’m through, too. I — I ” 

She broke off, and throwing her arms about Charley’s 
neck kissed him squarely in the mouth. She was gone — 
followed by the speechless housekeeper — before he could 
catch his breath. 

There was a moment’s awkward silence in the room. 
To relieve it Mr. Ball cleared his throat and remarked: 

“Did I get you right, old sport? Nothing more do- 
ing in tape — no more forever?” 

“Right,” Charley answered. “Scared stiff.” 

“Then,” exploded Mr. Ball, “you tell me what your 
system was, or I’ll have your heart for breakfast !” 

“Sure thing,” said Charley. “He wised me.” 

He pointed a finger at Mr. Drew and grinned. 

“Eh ? I ?” echoed the astounded man. 

“Sure,” said Charley. “That day in the car. I’m 
pushing that million you spoke about. Wait, Teddy.” 

He went into his bedroom. When he came out he set 
down on the table two paper boxes. They were of the 
kind they sell you linen collars in at the stores. Charley 
took the lid off one box. 


THE POOL IN PAPER COLLARS 195 


“Have a peek,” he invited. 

The gentlemen looked in. They saw a dozen or so 
slips of cardboard. On each was written the name of 
a standard stock. Charley lifted the lid from the other 
box. In it were but two slips of cardboard. One was 
marked “Buy,” the other was marked “Sell.” 

Very gently at first Mr. Drew’s vest buttons began 
to joggle. Then they rose and fell, and surged and 
heaved, until in a storm of laughter the lawyer fell over 
into a chair and raised his hands to heaven in mute 
appeal. 

“Simple,” said Charley. “Shut your eyes. Draw 
from one box — stock. Draw from other — buy or sell. 
Did it every night. Before dinner.” 

“Oh, my aunt ! Let me out of this !” yelped Mr. Ball. 
“Extra! All across the page!” 

He fled through the door. 

“Gollamighty !” squeaked Mr. Teeters. “Why didn’t 
I think of that?” 

“Because,” responded Mr. Link, solemnly, “your head 
is hollow. Charley, boy, I give in! It’s just dummed 
luck that’s ailing ye — sorra more!” 

“Sure,” said Charley. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


COME-ON MAKES A CHRISTMAS 

If you turn off from Times Square in the right direc- 
tion and pick the right street, you will come presently 
to The Goats’ clubhouse. It is not an imposing struc- 
ture, but it harbors an imposing aggregation of smooth- 
faced gentlemen whose opinion of themselves is limited 
only by the blue sky above. 

A few of these have arrived by virtue of undoubted 
genius to distinguished eminence in the eyes of the 
world ; others, by reason of some freak of feature, voice 
or figure, allied with a nimble wit, have found a short- 
cut to a temporary vogue which they fondly fancy is 
enduring fame ; and the rest pack around with them in- 
dividual spotlights in which they bask in the firm belief 
that a tardy Fate will view their merits and snatch the 
laurels from less worthy brows to crown their own. 

All of these good perky persons take most seriously 
the fact that they are among the living in this day of 
grace; and they can conceive of no greater calamity to 
society than would be their premature elimination from 
the program of events. They are a well-groomed, well- 
powdered, well-manicured lot of amiable, harmless ego- 
tists who speak English like the stewards on the trans- 
Atlantic boats — and get by with it among themselves. 
And they call themselves The Goats because — we are 
196 


COME-ON MAKES A CHRISTMAS 197 


only guessing at this — the goat is a sociable beast and not 
at all averse to sunning himself in public places. 

You may ask what all this has to do with Come-On 
Charley. The answer is, Charley was a Goat himself. 
And so was Mr. Percival Teeters, his secretary, friend 
and self-appointed mentor. They had been recently 
elected to fill vacancies in the resident membership of 
the club occasioned by resignations due to a hopeless 
pecuniary instability on the part of the resignors — a 
rather neat way of putting it, if any one should ask us. 

The Goats, though “professional” in the main, gladly 
receive within their fold those choice spirits who have 
managed to cut some kind of caper in art, music, litera- 
ture, sport, politics or other hazardous pursuits. Do 
this, and beat upon the portals of The Goats’ house; 
you will be taken in if you have the price and there is a 
vacant chair. The professional Goat must have an audi- 
ence at all times or he would pine his heart away. 

And thus it was that Mr. Carter became a Goat. He 
had long been eligible to the guild, but his late caper in 
Wall Street, whereby in one day he had looted that 
robber’s roost of over half a million dollars, made him 
preeminently fit to wear the horns. As for Mr. Teeters, 
he was born a goat; he needed no other qualification to 
admit him to the clan. 

We see them now — Mr. Carter and his secretary — on 
their way to The Goats’ where they have an appointment 
to lunch in the Dutch Room with Mr. Teddy Ball. 

It was Monday, the twenty-second day of December, 
and it was very cold. The club was not far from the 
Hotel Rirebien, yet Mr. Teeters would have ordered out 
the limousine — yes, they had a big French one now — 
but Mr. Carter vetoed this. He elected to walk. 

Mr. Teeters knew why and he grumbled at it; he was 


198 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


a luxurious soul, was Mr. Teeters, and he loved to see 
the flunkies come running out bareheaded to help him 
from his cushioned nest to mother earth. It made him 
feel Lucullus-like — only he didn’t know it by that name. 

“Merry Moses, Come-On !” he piped querulously. “We 
been walking everywhere for a week ! We’ll forget how 
to ride if you keep it up.” 

Charley did not answer. He had stopped short and 
was dropping two new silver dollars into the upturned 
palm of a beggar, a barrel-house product if ever there 
was one. But it made no difference with Charley. 

“Merry Christmas, pard!” he said, and walked on 
leaving the wretched toper crying whisky into his 
whiskers. 

Both of Charley’s overcoat-pockets sagged with silver, 
all dollars fresh from the mint; and he had gone to a 
lot of trouble to get them. 

“You look like you was carrying weight for age,” 
quarreled Mr. Teeters. “Why can’t you chuck it out 
the car-window and let ’em scramble for it?” 

“Because,” said Charley simply, “I’m not throwing 
bones to dogs.” 

“Huh !” snorted Mr. Teeters, finding no suitable reply 
immediately at hand. 

A girl with a broad red band around her bonnet was 
standing by a kettle on the corner ringing a bell. Char- 
ley let fall two more silver dollars into the kettle as he 
passed. 

“Merry Christmas!” he saluted. 

“God bless you, sir!” the girl called after him. 

Mr. Teeters wiggled his mustache and marched on 
at Charley’s side frowning thoughtfully. Presently the 
idea he was seeking popped into his mind and exploded 
into speech. 


COME-ON MAKES A CHRISTMAS 199 


“Say, Come-On! Why don’t you give it all to the 
Salvation Army and let them do the work?” 

Charley glanced at him in a puzzled sort of way. 

“Where do I come in ?” he asked. 

“Pink pills !” exclaimed the secretary petulantly. “You 
give the dough, don’t you?” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “But I don’t get the fun. 
Look ! Watch her eyes !” 

They had crossed Broadway. Coming toward them, 
up the side street they had turned into, was an old 
woman bent over in feeble resistance to the biting wind. 
She was wrapped in a long, faded, threadbare coat 
which she clutched to her throat with a shriveled claw. 
Want and misery, and the vice that companions them, 
were stamped on her face as with a brand from the 
devil’s brazier. 

Charley stepped in front of her. She halted and 
stared at him, suspicious and afraid. Charley held out 
his hand. In it were five shining silver dollars. The old 
woman’s lack-luster eyes grew wide and lighted up with 
the eager, ravening desire of a famished thing which 
has stumbled on its prey. And yet she was fearful, it 
seemed, of some cruel trick this grave young man was 
about to play on her. She reached out for the money 
and as quickly drew away, leaving it untouched. 

Charley smiled at her. 

“Merry Christmas !” he said, as if the phrase summed 
up all needful explanation. 

She understood him now. Charley laid the silver in 
the creature’s shaking hand, and as he did so the avid 
light in her eyes was drowned in a rush of tears. They 
left her, choking and struggling for speech, and went 
on. Mr. Teeters was fumbling in his trousers pocket. 

“Wait a minute, Come-On!” he cried of a sudden. 


200 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


He had drawn forth a fistful of loose change. He 
did not stop to count it, but ran back to the woman and 
thrust it upon her. She said something to him — Charley 
could not hear from where he stood — but Mr. Teeters 
waved it away with a lordly gesture and returned with 
his narrow chest puffed out. 

“Got the old dame's nanny that time," he remarked 
complacently. 

“Nothing like it," said Charley soberly. “Fun. Don't 
want any Army crabbing it." 

“But they’d make the coin go a good deal farther," 
Mr. Teeters argued. “I been keeping tab on you, Come- 
On, and you’ve frisked yourself in less’n a week of a 
roll as big as a bolster. I ain’t kicking on that play we 
made just now — the cards fell right for it — but it’s the 
bums and soaks you tumble for. The Army could feed 
five hundred of those bottle-babies for what you’ve 
slipped to fifty of ’em." 

“Sure," said Charley. “Machine-made Christmas. 
Good, if you like it. But suppose you’d rather drink 
than eat? Where’s your Christmas?" 

This, we concede, was a primitive view of the great 
annual day of regulation merry-making, but like all 
things primitive the salt of truth was in it. Mr. Teeters 
not being a moralist and much less a theologian was at 
loss for a rejoinder. Like many a better man, when cor- 
nered, he dodged the issue. 

“You’ve cut loose from nine dollars in ten minutes," 
he complained. “And it’s two days yet to Christmas! 
Where do you get off on this stunt anyway — in the 
hock-house ?’’ 

“I’m just practicing," Charley answered. “Getting a 
gait." 


COME-ON MAKES A CHRISTMAS 201 


They had reached The Goats’ Club and Mr. Teeters 
paused with his foot on the lower step. 

“Hey?” he queried mistrustfully. “You got to make 
a quick finish if you’re only practicing. What’s the little 
joker up your sleeve now, Come-On?” 

Charley grinned at him. It was not a wide grin, 
though, for he was dead in earnest. 

“Not there,” he said. “In the bank. I’m trying to 
scheme out how to do it.” 

Mr. Teeters gave vent to an impatient exclamation. 

“Do what?” 

“Give away some real money. Myself. Between now 
and Christmas Eve.” 

Mr. Teeters removed his foot from the step and laid 
hold of Mr. Carter’s arm with both hands. The action 
suggested self-defense — as if he would stay an impend- 
ing blow. For Mr. Teeters knew his chief was given to 
deplorable resolves which all his secretarial skill could 
not abate, and which sometimes floored him flat. 

“How much, Come-On?” he demanded breathlessly. 
“Five hundred?” 

“Ten thousand,” said Charley quietly. 

“Gollamighty !” gasped Mr. Teeters, and fell away 
from him. 

He not only fell away from Mr. Carter, but fell up 
the steps and butted headlong into the doorman, who 
had sprung out to assist him; which, if you will stop to 
think of it, was a quite appropriate entrance for a Goat 
to make into the fold. 

While Charley and Mr. Teeters are getting their coats 
checked, let us look in on Mr. Theodore Ball, who is 
waiting to entertain them. 

It was the off-season in the sporting editor’s line, and 
he was out hunting for feature stories of any kind. 


202 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Hence a telephoned invitation to Mr. Carter and his 
secretary to lunch with him at The Goats’. Mr. Carter 
was a mine of unexpected pay-streaks which Mr. Ball 
had worked aforetime with profit to his paper and him- 
self. The last time it netted him a red strip across the 
front page and ready money in his pocket — the day U. S. 
Paper Collars dropped from 70 to 48 ^4 inside of three 
short hours. 

Mr. Ball was thinking of this as he waited for his 
guests ; possibly something else was afoot with Charley 
that would pan out a scare-head, if not more dollars in 
his purse. 

It was late for luncheon and the enterprising repre- 
sentative of the Scream had the low-raftered, squat 
Dutch grill-room to himself. He was half reclining on 
a Dutch settle before a heavy oak Dutch table in a cor- 
ner near the wide Dutch fireplace when Mr. Carter and 
his secretary came clattering across the Dutch tiled floor 
to him. He sat up straight on the settle, and a knowl- 
edge of Dutch being a gift denied him he was forced to 
salute his friends in homespun English. 

“Hello, sports!” he shouted cheerily. “What’s the 
news ?” 

“You can search me,” invited Charley, helping himself 
to a chair. 

Mr. Teeters said nothing. He took the other chair 
and sat down, breathing hard. His mustache was wig- 
gling, and this to Mr. Ball was a sign and omen not to be 
neglected. But he waited until the lunch was on the 
table before probing into the secretary’s mental clock- 
works. Then he asked: 

“What’s the matter, Merciful? Wound up so tight’ 
you can’t strike?” 


COME-ON MAKES A CHRISTMAS 203 


Mr. Teeters broke his silence tumultuously. He 
struck all at once. 

“Come-On’s got a bug! He's looney as a lobster!" 

This looked promising to Mr. Ball. 

“What special breed is biting you, Charley?" he deli- 
cately inquired. 

“Skeeters," grinned Mr. Carter, and went on placidly 
with his Blue Points. 

“It's a Christmas bug!" blatted Mr. Teeters. “He’s 
Christmas crazy, Teddy. He’s going to peddle out ten 
thousand bucks to all the Hop-Along Henrys the cops 
ain’t got in the coop." 

Mr. Ball, who had just started an oyster on the way 
to its long home, swallowed it under forced draft and 
gulped out — 

“O mother!" 

He saw the makings of a red strip dancing before his 
eyes and was exceeding glad. 

“Is this pretty boy stating facts, or just playing with 
his odds and ends of language?" he prayed Mr. Carter 
to inform him. 

“Sure," said Charley. 

“Sure what?" Mr. Ball demanded sternly. “You are 
going to give away ten thousand dollars to the poor this 
Christmas ?" 

“I said it," Charley replied, leaning back and return- 
ing the Scream man’s fervid gaze. 

“Ha!" ejaculated Mr. Teeters. “Didn’t I tell you, 
Teddy ! The stitching in his beanbag is coming lose." 

“Sh-h-h !’’ Mr. Ball raised a warning hand. “Watch 
what I’m going to do." He beckoned to the waiter and 
said to him: “Bring us a quart of Verzenay. Hurry! 
It’s life and death!" 


204 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Mr. Teeters blinked at hearing this and ran his tongue 
around his lips. He loved champagne. 

“You’re feeling strong to-day?” he praised his host. 
“Six dollars a bucket!” 

“I owe it to you, Teet, old bird, for soothing my de- 
clining years,” Mr. Ball assured him. “Charley, how 
are you going to do it, and when and where?” 

“Don’t know,” said Charley. “Trying to dope it out. 
Job.” 

“Want any help?” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Throw a line.” 

“All right. Hire the Garden and give a relay dinner. 
Ten thousand dollars will feed thirty thousand people; 
fill ’em so full you’d have to button up their mouths to 
keep it in.” 

Mr. Carter gave his views on Christmas charity-din- 
ners with the same admirable succinctness with which 
he had stated them to Mr. Teeters. 

“Good !” agreed Mr. Ball. “Every man his own Santa 
Claus. That’s the idea, is it? And you want to hand it 
out yourself ? All right. In just a minute.” 

The waiter had come with the wine, and another was 
placing on the table grilled chicken wings and a “polo- 
naise of petits pois de Paraguay” or some such kitchen 
murder of a noble language. When this was done and 
the wine poured Mr. Ball bade the attendants go away 
somewhere and meditate upon their sins. Then he 
turned to Mr. Carter. 

“Get an air-ship, fly low, drop the seeds as you flit 
along, and scoot off till the riot’s over,” he advised. “You 
could change your name and come back in a month or 
two when the police had gotten over it.” 

“Fine!” applauded Charley. “Only one objection.” 

“What?” pressed Mr. Ball. 


COME-ON MAKES A CHRISTMAS 205 


"I don’t want to go away.” 

Mr. Teeters had drained his glass and was beginning 
to look on Mr. Carter’s lunacy with indulgence. Another 
glass would make him see real merit in it, and with a 
third he would probably claim the idea as his own. 
Wine worked wonders with Mr. Teeters’s wits. 

“Shucks!” he exclaimed contemptuously. “It’s easy 
as mixing mush with milk. Hire a hall, and when it’s 
full lock the doors and pass around the pudding.” 

“By George!” cried Charley. “Good scheme, Percy. 
Bully!” 

“Pooh !” Mr. Ball scouted the notion. “You wouldn’t 
reach the unwashed brother at all. You’d have a house- 
ful of chorus-girls and bank-directors looking for an- 
other daffy dollar.” 

“Keep them out,” said Charley. “Only let the poor 
in.” 

Mr. Ball regarded him compassionately. 

“Say, how are you planning to give away the money, 
my dear young Christian friend?” 

Charley thought a minute. 

“Dollar apiece,” he answered. 

The Scream man laughed mockingly. 

“Why, you boob, you couldn’t squeeze the mob in- 
side the Hippodrome if it was twice as big ! And if you 
could, they’d wreck it as soon as you began to shell your 
corn. I know these Weary Willies’ artless ways, my 
son; they’d make a prairie full of wild bulls look like 
pet lambs.” 

“Gee!” said Charley. “Never thought of that. Up 
a stump.” 

“We got to do it some way,” vowed Mr. Teeters who 
was finishing his second glass. “What’s the matter with’ 


206 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


me skating up one side of the Bowery and Charley up 
the other, feeding it out as we slide along?” 

“Oh, nothing — nothing at all,” jeered the sporting edi- 
tor. “They’d only have to call out the reserves; and 
you’d eat your Christmas dinner on the Island.” 

“Merry Moses!” yapped Mr. Teeters, reaching for 
the bottle. “Can’t you give away a box of greens in this 
bum burg without getting bawled out for it?” 

“Not the way Charley wants to do it,” returned Teddy. 

“Got another idea,” announced Charley. 

“Oh my aunt!” murmured the reporter. “What is it, 
dearie ?” 

“Give away ten-dollar bills instead of dollars. Not so 
many people, but make a better Christmas for them.” 

“That’s more like it,” conceded Mr. Ball. “But let’s 
do a little figuring. It’s a thousand stockings, in a way 
of speaking, you’ve got to fill. You can’t get started 
till to-morrow, and that gives you only two days to turn 
the trick in. If you walked around twelve hours a day 
hunting up your hoboes you couldn’t make a finish. Do 
you know what the stunt is ? Forty-one hand-outs every 
hour ! One every ninety seconds without stopping to 
eat, drink or cuss. It can’t be did, sweet son of mine !” 

“Bet you a hundred,” said Charley, unperturbed by 
this line of argument. “Must be a way. Got to think it 
up.” 

“Let me get you straight,” earnestly requested Mr. 
Ball. “You are going to pass out yourself — individual- 
ly — ten dollars each to a thousand people between Tues- 
day morning and Wednesday night? Is that right?” 

Charley nodded. Mr. Ball hurriedly rammed his hand 
into his inside pocket. 

“Don’t move,” he begged. “Look pleasant. I’m going 
to take you.” 


COME-ON MAKES A CHRISTMAS 207 


He pulled out a checkbook, uncapped a fountain-pen 
and began to write. 

“I’ve got a little of that Paper Collar money left,” he 
chuckled. “I’ll send along another century to swell it 
up a bit.” 

Mr. Teeters decreased his third glass to an irreducible 
minimum, and began feeling in his pockets also. 

“You can’t bluff me!” he bragged. “I got some of 
that Collar stuff myself. When me and Come-On start 
anything we play it to the knock-out.” 

“My! My!” sniggered Mr. Ball. “Hear the Skeeters 
buzz! What a Merry Christmas my bank account is 
going to have!” 

There were three books on the table now ; for Charley, 
at Mr. Ball’s first move, had quietly proceeded to make 
good his wager. When the checks were all written the 
newspaper man swept them to one side and weighted 
them down with the salt cellar. 

“We’ll leave them in the office when we go out,” he 
said. “Now, boys — ” he turned serious all at once — 
“you know there’s a story for me in this, don’t you?” 

“Hey?” croaked Mr. Teeters. “Story?” 

Charley looked at Mr. Ball, frankly puzzled. 

“Don’t quite get you,” he stated. “Only making Christ- 
mas presents.” 

“Oh, my suffering soul!” moaned the Scream man. 
“They don’t see it! Look me in the eye!” he com- 
manded them austerely. “Even in New York when some 
one takes ten thousand dollars and scatters ’em all over 
the landscape it’s apt to attract attention. People men- 
tion it to one another, you know, by way of making con- 
versation. And they like to read about it. Now I don’t 
want to pick this plum till it’s ripe, understand ?” 

Charley nodded gravely. 


208 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Get you now. Want to print it.” 

“Safe hit,” commended Mr. Ball. “I could make a 
yell about it to-day and tell what you’re going to do. But 
that’s not the point — it’s how you’re going to do it that 
rings the bell. You’ll have to hatch out some sort of a 
plan by to-morrow morning or you’ll be left at the post 
for fair. Until then you are not to breathe a word of 
this to any one who might pass it on to a reporter. This 
story is my meat, and I’m going to serve it up sizzling 
hot in the Scream to-morrow with all-alone sauce. It’s 
what they call a scoop, dear Children of the Abbey, and 
I’m the scooper. Does that reach you ?” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Keep it mum. Friend. Any- 
thing to oblige.” 

Mr. Teeters cackled vinously, and was about to add 
a word of wit to all this wisdom when from the adjoin- 
ing room came an irruption that smote him dumb. 


i 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE BET AT THE GOATS* CLUB 

A bald-headed young man of a sneering and pale 
and pimply visage strode boisterously in. He was 
dressed in the last cry of fashion, and obviously had 
been holding close communion with evil spirits — though 
the label on the bottle said otherwise. It was not this 
gentleman’s unlovely facial aspect that silenced Mr. 
Teeters, nor yet his clothes which struck his fancy smart- 
ly; it was a sheaf of yellow bank-notes he waved above 
his burnished crest, as if he would make a halo for it. 

Several men had followed on the heels of this appari- 
tion and stood ranged about him like a chorus. One 
of them grinned at Teddy Ball and made motions, entire- 
ly superfluous, derogatory to the pimply person’s 
sobriety. 

“Name is Arthur Arrington. In on a card. Old man 
left him twenty millions.” 

Mr. Ball imparted this information sotto voce behind 
his hand to his companions, while Mr. Arrington stood 
leering at them and seeking for some expression which 
might electrify his new audience. He found it finally. 

“I’m from Pittsburg!” he proclaimed. 

“Pittsburg?” Mr. Ball cocked a solemn eye at his 
mates. “Pittsburg? Ever heard of it?” 

“Ha, Ha !” laughed Mr. Arrington, sardonically. 
“Funny as a funeral, ain’t you ? Pennsylvania’s in Pitts- 
209 


210 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


burg, if you want to know, and it’s where the dead-game 
sports come from.” 

He strutted over to them and looked them up and 
down challengingly. 

“Dead-game sports!” he repeated. “Bet on anything 
— from how far a jellyfish can jump to — to — ” he veered 
around to the other men — “what was it? Oh! To 
whether you can hold a crowd on Broadway for sixty 
minutes by the watch. I say it can’t be done, and there’s 
not a Goat in the bunch who’ll take me up ! Somebody’s 
bleached their livers for ’em.” 

Come-On Charley surveyed him stolidly. Mr. Teeters’s 
fascinated eyes were glued to the yellowbacks. He had 
caught a glimpse of an M on one of them. 

“Oh, I say, Arrington, you know,” protested an in- 
dignant Goat with a perfect Aquitania accent, “you fly 
a bit too high for us, old chap. You jolly well know we 
haven’t the oof.” 

“He will only lay in thousands, Ball,” complained a 
second injured Goat. “Too deuced stiff, you know, my 
boy, to take a chawnce.” 

Mr. Arrington fanned the air again with his batch of 
bills. 

“Bring on somebody who’s alive!” he whooped. 
“Here’s five thousand to say it can’t be done.” 

This was a little ambiguous, perhaps, but no one 
seemed to notice it. 

“How about it, Carter?” hinted Goat Number Two. 
“We thought maybe — eh? For the honor of the Club 
— what ?” 

Mr. Ball hereupon made the gentlemen acquainted; 
he saw another story peeping at him from around the 
corner — one that he could use right off. Mr. Carter 


THE BET AT THE GOATS ’ CLUB 211 


acknowledged the introduction and took a swallow of 
wine. It was as if he would wash down a bad taste in 
his mouth. 

“Oh, your liver’s red, is it?” catechized the Smoky 
City citizen in his pleasantly ingratiating way. “Glad to 
find a live sport in this morgue. Are you on?” 

Charley gazed steadily at him for a moment, and there 
was a glint in his hazel eyes which Mr. Teeters recog- 
nized. He had seen it there on one or two occasions 
when the con men were making ready to spring their 
little trap, blissfully unconscious of the hole in it. 

“Are you on?” The pimply one renewed the invita- 
tion belligerently. “If you marry, murder, jump off the 
roof, or blow your brains out on Broadway they won’t 
stop long enough to ask who you are. The bet is : one 
man can’t do anything that’ll hold the crowd an hour; 
not if he could turn himself inside out and show ’em 
how his heart worked — and his liver!” He added this 
with his amiable laugh. 

“You’re drunk,” said Charley to him coldly. “Come 
back when you’re sober.” 

Mr. Arrington received this in a quite unexpected man- 
ner. It seemed to tickle his sense of humor. 

“Drunk? Great guns! I’m only warming up to trot 
a heat to-night. I’ll show you some speed if you stick 
around. Me drunk — now? What d’ye think of that?” 

He appealed in high glee to his friends. 

“He’s just normal, Carter, really,” said one of them 
reassuringly. “Knows what is what. It’s up to you, 
old man.” 

Mr. Teeters suddenly bethought himself of his respon- 
sibilities as guide and mentor to his chief. 

“Come-On, you got all you can handle,” he warned. 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


212 

“Good-night !” scoffed the gentleman from Pittsburg. 
“His liver’s turning yellow. I’m going out to Woodlawn 
where they’ve buried all the live ones.” 

“Wait!” Charley spoke the word quietly, but there 
was a ring to it that made the other wheel around. 
“What do you call a crowd ?” 

“Oh, a thousand. That’s a tidy bunch to hold together 
for an hour,” rejoined Arrington with a liberal air. 

“Good,” said Charley. “Make the bet ten thousand 
and I’ll go you.” 

“Wow !” barked Teddy Ball. 

The other Goats, taken off their guard, pressed about 
the table and chorused in plain American: 

“Bully boy, Charley! That’s the stuff! Make him 
squeal !” 

But Mr. Arrington, whatever else he may have been — 
and that was a lot you wouldn’t want to be — was no 
squealer. 

“Why, he’s come to life !” he remarked, affecting a su- 
preme astonishment. “Make it twenty.” 

“Better scheme than that,” said Charley coolly. “Ten 
thousand first hour. Ten thousand every hour after.” 

“What? You think you could hold a crowd more than 
an hour?” The pimply Pittsburger laughed his unbe- 
lief. 

“Maybe,” Charley told him. “Got to scheme it out.” 

“I guess you have!” gibed the bald one. “How’d a 
four-hour limit strike you — you to lose for every hour 
you don’t hold ’em — what?” And he laughed again. 

Mr. Ball interfered here. 

“You call yourself a sport, do you?” he mocked. 
“Why, you’re simply looking for an easy place to fall 
on! Afraid you’ll lose a dime. Go back to Vicksburg 


THE BET AT THE GOATS ’ CLUB 213 


— or whatever you call it — and play marbles with the 
other little boys. You don’t belong in a real town.” 

Arrington’s bald head took on a sunset hue. He was 
red, doubtless, to his toes. 

“If I lose I pay double for every hour after the first,” 
he blazed at the reporter. “You didn’t wait to hear me 
out. I’m no sure-thing piker, and don’t you forget it.” 

“That’s different,” returned Mr. Ball composedly. 
“What do you say, Charley?” 

“Suits me. Fix it anyway you want.” 

“Then,” said Mr. Ball to Mr. Arrington, “either put 
up, shut up, or blow up, but be quick about it, for I’ve 
got to get busy on the phone.” 

Mr. Arrington put up. With twenty million dollars 
at your back, to be a dead-game sport is written in the 
part. He drew a preliminary check for ten thousand 
payable to Charley, and Charley drew his check accord- 
ingly. They were deposited with the other checks in 
the office. The time limit for the feat was Christmas 
Eve, and a committee was appointed to keep tally of 
the crowd when Charley should give notice he was ready. 

“How are you going to pull it off, Charley ?” Mr. Ball 
asked him privately before ringing up his paper. 

Charley’s lips curved at the corners. 

“Don’t know,” he confessed. “Got to do some 
thinking.” 

It was growing dark when he and Mr. Teeters left 
The Goats’, and it was growing colder. The secretary 
pulled up the collar of his overcoat and sunk his chin in 
it, grumbling as he stepped along. The wine had staled 
in him by now. 

“I wouldn’t ask a dog to walk a night like this,” he 
wailed. “There’s that wagon in the garage getting 


214 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


spider-webs hung on it, and we out pounding down the 
pave as if we was drawing pay for it!” 

“Exercise,” said Charley cheerfully, “makes you feel 
good.” 

“Huh!” groaned Mr. Teeters. “You got a right to 
feel first rate, I don't think. You stand to hand yourself 
a phony Christmas present — a loss of forty thousand 
bones. And I tried to stop you.” 

Charley answered him with the gravity of a deacon 
passing the plate. 

“Ought to do something for it, Skeeters.” 

“Do something for what?” inquired Mr. Teeters 
testily. 

“Your liver. Made of chalk,” said Charley. And 
then he laughed. 

When they got back to the Rirebien Charley's pockets 
were the lighter by half a dozen other silver dollars, be- 
stowed mostly on blue-lipped, numb-fingered little news 
venders who straightway forgot the cold and burst into 
pyrotechnical exclamations of delight. 

“It’s worth the money,” Charley declared as the last 
shrieking youngster darted off, and they turned into the 
hotel. 

They went up to dress for dinner. They were going 
to the theater afterward to see “The Undertaker's 
Wedding,” a new play of the brand of humor they weep 
over in Boston and laugh themselves to death at in New 
York. They had made their change, and were lolling 
about in the sitting-room smoking a preprandial cigar- 
ette when Mr. Drew walked in on them. He held a late 
edition of the Scream in his hand. 

“What does this mean?” he asked, exhibiting a black 
strip-head across the front page. It read: 


THE BET AT THE GOATS ’ CLUB 215 


CAN COME-ON CHARLEY CASH IN? 

“Let’s have a peek at it !” Mr. Carter replied sedately. 

He glanced over the story the fertile-minded Mr. Ball 
had telephoned to his paper. Mr. Drew sat down and 
watched him. 

“Well?” he demanded when Charley finished. 

The boy’s eyes flickered as he met the question. 

“All there,” he said. “Know as much as I do.” 

“Good Lord! Do you mean to say you haven’t any 
plan?” cried the astounded lawyer. 

“Not yet,” said Charley calmly. 

“And if you had,” went on the other, “don’t you know 
you couldn’t work it? The police wouldn’t let you. A 
thousand people four hours — in Broadway! It can’t be 
done !” 

“That’s what Arrington said,” observed Charley with 
a grin. 

Mr. Teeters who, for him, had kept a lengthened si- 
lence, here piped up. 

“Come-On’s got a kink in his cut-off. He’s letting 
out all his steam.” 

“What?” The attorney looked suspiciously at Mr. 
Carter. “Are you meditating any more fool flings like 
that?” 

He pointed to the paper which Charley had tossed on 
the table. 

“Oh, no!” put in Mr. Teeters cynically. “He ain’t 
fixing to do a thing but skin his roll till it bleeds. He’s 
only meditating a Merry Christmas for a bunch of 
bums !” 

“Yes?” said Mr. Drew softly. It was his way when 
greatly tried. “Now will you be good enough, Mr. 


21 6 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Merciful Skeeters, to translate that into English? I’m 
a plain man and my vocabulary is painfully circum- 
scribed.” 

Thus exhorted Mr. Teeters related Mr. Carter’s pur- 
pose as lucidly as his wayward tongue would let him. 

“Well,” remarked the portly advocate when he was in 
possession of the facts, “if a man has ten thousand dol- 
lars to give away, on Christmas, I have nothing to say; 
that’s his business. But if the man is a friend of mine 
and he starts to ambulate around this town playing Santa 
Claus with sudden death, that’s my business, and I’ll 
have him locked up.” 

“Skeeters will go along,” said Charley soberly. “Good 
in a scrap.” 

The hint of sudden death Mr. Drew had so subtly 
thrown out did not, however, sit well on Mr. Teeters’s 
spiritual stomach. It was a new slant at Charley’s 
Christmas merrymaking which had not occured to him. 

“Say, Come-On !” he broke out. “Mr. Drew is right. 
Some guy may slip a skewer in my chitlings and make 
a mess of ’em. That don’t get me extra hard — I’m dated 
up for Christmas Day, and I want to keep it. And you 
— you’re shy that million yet you got to make.” 

“Yes,” interjected Mr. Drew, “and he’s in a fine way 
to set himself back forty thousand, to say nothing of 
the other ten.” 

Charley grinned at them both and rose from his chair. 

“Dinner time. Hungry. Let’s go down,” he sug- 
gested. 

“I’ll do it,” assented Mr. Drew with emphasis, “be- 
cause I’m going to keep an eye on you, young man, till 
after Christmas. And I give you fair warning — at the 
first overt act of lunacy on your part I’ll have you 
clapped behind the bars. “Who,” he added threatening- 


THE BET AT THE GOATS' CLUB 217 


ly, “will that two million go to, your Uncle William left, 
if you get yourself knocked on the head?” 

Charley paused with his hand on the door-knob and 
regarded his questioner with serious eyes. 

“I wonder/ 5 he said. 

With some trouble they secured an extra seat for “The 
Undertaker’s Wedding,” and Mr. Drew, in his role of 
Cerberus, went along. When they arrived at the theater 
they found a queue reaching from the box-office into the 
street waiting to buy seats ; and the lobby was thronged 
with people pouring like cold molasses through a funnel 
past the ticket-taker, who at that hour was the busiest 
man in the borough. 

The little party from the Rirebien were in turn poured 
into the foyer, and it was while they were on their way 
to the cloak-room the great idea came to Charley. He 
stopped suddenly and exclaimed: 

“By George! Say! I’ve got it!” 

“Got what?” queried Mr. Teeters. 

“How to give away that Christmas money.” 

“Humph!” grunted Mr. Drew. “If you’d found a 
way to win that bet of yours you’d be saying some- 
thing.” 

“Got that fixed up too,” said Charley. 

“Oh, you have ! And how, pray ?” Mr. Drew’s tone 
was satirically suave. 

“Tell you about it to-morrow. Noon. Not before,” 
said Charley. 

And that was all they could get out of him. It 
spoiled a roaring farce for Mr. Teeters, who was as in- 
quisitive as an ape. He sat through it like a hired mute 
at a funeral, his thoughts astir with everything except 
— as you might say — the corpse. 

The next morning his plight was even worse. Charley 


218 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


instructed him to call up Teddy Ball at the Scream of- 
fice and ask him to come to the Rirebien at one o’clock; 
and then he drove off all alone in the neglected limou- 
sine, leaving his secretary about to pass away with a 
plague of curiosity. 

As the machine rounded the corner into Broadway, 
Charley saw Mr. Drew turning in from that thorough- 
fare toward the hotel. Their eyes met at the same 
moment, and the lawyer halted and gestured to him. But 
Mr. Carter, leaning forward to the door, simply showed 
his teeth in the broadest of broad grins, and in this 
provoking pose was swept from the other’s sight. 

His first call was on Mr. Verdant Wise, manager of 
the Allrott Theater. Everybody knows where that is. 
Going in one direction it is on the left-hand side of 
Broadway between Columbus Circle and Madison 
Square. Going in the other direction it is on the right- 
hand side. Of late it was particularly easy to find be- 
cause of the crowds that nightly kept away from it. 
Three failures in succession had made a theatrical pest- 
house of the place. 

Mr. Wise sat in his office, dark of brow and peeved 
in manner when Mr. Carter was ushered in. Possibly 
he was silently concocting curses to call down on hapless 
playwrights who could not concoct successes; but after 
Charley had talked with him five minutes the clouds 
lifted from Mr. Wise’s melancholy front and his bear- 
ing brightened. He became as nearly human as is per- 
mitted to his class. He could see the advertising value 
in Mr. Carter’s proposition, and jumped at it as a hun- 
gry toad jumps at a fly. 

Charley next paid a call on the captain of the police 
precinct in which the Allrott Theater languished. He 
left that worthy in a state of partial coma when he 


THE BET AT THE GOATS 9 CLUB 219 


came away — surprise, agitation and profound perplexity 
having very nearly done for him. 

From the police station Mr. Carter drove down to his 
bank and made arrangements to have a thousand ten- 
dollar gold pieces delivered to him at the Rirebien in the 
afternoon. 

He got back to his rooms a little after twelve. He 
had telephoned from the bank for Mr. Joseph Link 
to meet him at the hotel, and he found him waiting. 
With Mr. Link waited Mr. Drew and Mr. Teeters. 
Teddy Ball was also there, but he was not waiting; he 
was effervescing — foaming with impatience. He boiled 
over entirely when Mr. Carter made his appearance. 

“Do you think we’re getting out a monthly maga- 
zine ?” he stormed. “One o’clock ! Why didn’t you say 
next week? Do you want the other papers to beat me 
to it? From what this yap Skeeters has to say you’re 
all choked up with a story I ought to have out on the 
street right now. And you running round loose with 
it all over town!” 

“Pay no heed to him, Charley,” spoke up Mr. Link. 
“It’s a way they have with them, these newspaper lads, 
when they get too full of ink. It goes to their head.” 

“Come-On ” began Mr. Teeters. 

“Shut up!” Mr. Ball politely bade him. “Charley, 
I’ve got a taxi down below, with steam up ready to 
break the limit. Will you pass out that story yourself 
or must I cut it out of you with a knife ?” 

Mr. Carter, who had been leisurely divesting him- 
self of his overcoat, took a seat and said to Mr. Link: 

“Joe, got a job for you. Going to have ten thou- 
sand dollars here to-day. Gold.” 

“Saints above!” cried Mr. Link. “And what have I 
to do with that?” 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


220 

Charley grinned at him. 

“Want you to sit on it all night. Keep the dust off.” 

Teddy Ball leaped from his chair and began with 
elaborate care to roll up his sleeves. 

“I'm preparing to strangle you, Mr. Come-On Char- 
ley, if you don’t disgorge that story,” he proclaimed. 
“Out with it, or say your prayers!” 

Charley grinned again. 

“Nothing much to tell,” he answered. “Going to 
start at eight o’clock to-morrow. Give away ten dol- 
lars every quarter minute till twelve. Makes ninety-six 
hundred dollars. Last man gets four hundred extra. 
Makes ten thousand. That’s all — simple!” 

“All?” screamed Mr. Ball in agony of spirit. “O 
Misery Mike, can I keep from murdering this idiot! 
How are you going to do it ? That’s the story. HOW ?” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Forgot that. Ticket- window, 
Allrott Theater. Hand money out instead of in. First 
come, first served.” 

“Lord love us !” boomed Mr. Link. “He talks like ’tis 
only soup-tickets he’s going to pass around!” 

Mr. Ball gasped. The market value of the project 
to the Scream dazzled him. When he had caught his 
breath he shouted — 

“By heaven, I believe he’s hit it! There’s no law 
I know of to prevent. Is there?” he appealed to Mr. 
Drew. 

That gentleman, who was gazing at Charley as if he 
were a freak of nature just brought to his attention, 
slowly shook his head. 

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’ll have to look it up. 
It’s a charity, and that helps. But the procedure may 
incite a riot. Why — good Lord — Broadway will be 
jammed! When they read in the papers to-night what 


THE BET AT THE GOATS ’ CLUB 221 


he’s going to do the whole East Side will start running 
to be there on time. The police will have their troubles.” 

“That’s another story for to-morrow,” exulted Mr. 
Ball; and with this he shot out of the room. 

Mr. Teeters hopped up from the couch he was sitting 
on with a squawk of joy. 

“Come-On, you’ll win your bet with that hooray hick 
from Pittsburg!” 

“Thought of that,” acknowledged Charley. “Two 
birds with one stone.” 

“And I’ll win mine with Teddy,” clacked Mr. Teeters. 
“Ha!” He addressed the lawyer. “Going to lock him 
up, was you? Going to put him in a foolery for funny 
folks with thingumbobs in their thinkeries? O gosh, I 
wish I was a wise guy like some I know!” 

Mr. Drew waved him away with an absent air — as he 
would a gnat or other irksome insect. He spoke to 
Charley : 

“If you hold the crowd two hours you win thirty 
thousand. That’s ten to the good even if you lose on 
the other two hours.” 

“Right,” Charley answered. “What about it?” 

“Oh, nothing,” said Mr. Drew in a carefully careless 
tone. “You have a chance — just a chance — and-er-I 
was wondering if there is any first or second hour Ar- 
rington money ” 

“Faith, and that’s just what I was wondering meself,” 
cut in Mr. Link, getting to his feet. “And what’s more 
I’m going out to look for it — all four hours by St. 
Patrick! I’m betting on the lad’s good luck.” 

He strode over to the door. Mr. Drew rose hastily 
from his chair. 

“Just a minute, Link,” he called. “I’d like to have 
a word with you — outside.” 


222 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


He shook his fist at Charley, who was wide agrin, and 
scowled horrendously at Mr. Teeters, who was goggling 
at him. And he banged the door as he went out. It was 
not a very masterly retreat, but it sufficed. Mr. Teeters, 
with his accustomed modesty, took merit to himself for 
it. He began to cackle. 

“You can bury me alive, Come-On, if I didn’t back 
the old rooster down!” he crowed. 

“Sure,” said Charley solemnly. “Backed him clean 
off his perch. You’re a wonder, Skeeters!” 


CHAPTER XX 


HOW THE TRICK WAS TURNED 

Imagine, please, a line of block type an inch and a 
quarter high running across the face of the Scream like 
a streak of scarlet fever. Imagine it, kind reader, for 
to reproduce it here would take the width of four of 
these printed pages placed side by side, and we are 
informed that this is seldom, if ever, done, except 
where the author owns the book plant. If you can im- 
agine such a thing as that you can imagine without an 
effort the red strip in the Scream on the evening of 
December twenty-third, in the year we have not already 
mentioned. It ran — the strip — in this wise : 


COME-ON CHARLEY’S CHRISTMAS 

Below this, near the center of the page, was a double 
column cut of Charley, and to the right of it a scare- 
head which read: 

$10,000 in Gold to Charity. 

Carter to Play Santa Claus. 

He Will Give Away To-morrow 
One Thousand Gold Eagles 
T o One Thousand Needy Poor. 

Last Man Gets $400 Extra. 


224* 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


This was twice the size of the usual “Horrible Mur- 
der” or “Dreadful Disaster” head the Scream was wont 
to thrill its readers with ; but local news was scarce, the 
story was a scoop, and the novelty of Charley’s mode 
of distribution, together with its correlation with the 
Arrington wager, made an excuse for the display. 

The details which followed this prodigal parade of 
job-type supplied information of the place of distribu- 
tion, and the how and when of it; and it was also made 
distinctly clear that Mr. Carter’s desire to help along 
the Christmas festivities “was born of no ulterior mo- 
tives ” we are quoting Mr. Ball — “but was conceived 

and determined on in a spirit of large philanthropy be- 
fore he had laid eyes on the Pittsburg millionaire.” 

Every evening paper in the city followed the Scream’s 
lead — they could not ignore it — and the morning papers 
on the twenty-fourth carried the story, embellished in 
some instances with interviews with Charley which were 
as authentic as the Apocrypha itself. For Mr. Carter, 
be it known, had fled for the night to an obscure hotel 
when the Central Office of the police department had 
called him up on the telephone, shortly after the Scream 
came out, and intimated the Commissioner would like 
a word with him. 

He left Mr. Link and Mr. Teeters keeping guard 
over the gold — some thirty odd pounds of the precious 
metal stowed away in an Oxford bag. This they were to 
smuggle into the Allrott Theater by the stage door at 
six o’clock in the morning, when Charley would meet 
them. A pair of armed Pinkertons would ride in the 
limousine as escort to the treasure. 

Mr. Drew, in the meantime, had looked up the law and 
could find nothing against Charley’s plan, except the 
ordinance providing against obstruction of the street and 


HOW THE TRICK WAS TURNED 225 


traffic. As Charley would not be on the street, but well 
away from it, it was a moot point whether he could 
be charged with violating the law. 

A man circling the Flatiron building in an airship 
would pack the streets below, but would this make 
him guilty of a misdemeanor? It was a peg to hang 
a legal wrangle on should it be brought into court, and 
pending this it was up to the police. The Christmas 
spirit was abroad, and interfering with a charity on 
such a scale as this would not be a popular move. 

Perhaps it was this which made the police so abnor- 
mally mild on the morning of the twenty-fourth, or per- 
haps it was something else. At any rate, when at six 
o’clock Charley’s limousine drew up in the side street 
from which a passage led to the Allrott’s stage-door no 
one questioned Mr. Link as he lugged the Oxford bag 
into the theater, for no one was there to do it. Four 
or five policemen were patrolling the street at the Broad- 
way entrance before the heavy steel portcullis which 
barred the lobby, and they had their hands full with the 
crowd which was already gathering — a miserable, shiv- 
ering host of human derelicts, pouring in from all the 
wretched dens the city harbored. 

And the odd part of it was these dubious persons at 
first did not seem anxious to approach too near the thea- 
ter. They took account of one another, casting up, so 
it seemed, the number present, and each being politely 
solicitous to give way to his fellow. They were think- 
ing of the four hundred dollars the last man was to get. 

This continued but a short time, however, for by seven 
o’clock it became a question of which would be first 
and the devil take the hindermost. Who this final one 
would be was an arithmetical problem impossible of 
solution. Broadway was jammed for a block each way; 


226 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


from the Allrott. The precinct reserves had been called 
out long before this, but they could not stem the tide 
which set in against them. They were too late — or too 
lax. 

Charley, with a shrewd look ahead, had notified his 
judicatory committee of Goats the day previous to put 
in an appearance before seven, and the committee 
watched the crowd from a second-story window, ar- 
ranged for in advance, across the street from the play- 
house. They estimated there were three thousand peo- 
ple in sight when the clock struck seven. At least a 
fourth of these were spectators, drawn to the spot thus 
early by curiosity inflamed through reading the news- 
papers. 

The police were in full evidence now. Reserves came 
up on the run from neighboring precincts, and attempts 
were made to “cut out’" a calculated thousand men and 
women and form a line of them extending around the 
square in the hope that the others could be dispersed. 
But the crowd fought this doggedly. They were sus- 
picious ; they were not to be dispossessed of the vantage- 
ground they had acquired. Those massed about the en- 
trance to the Allrott would not budge, and those on the 
outer edge kept pressing in, trusting desperately to 
some chance that would land them within the favored 
circle. 

The bluecoats made onslaughts on them with drawn 
clubs, but somehow there was no punch behind these 
raids, and the clubs did little damage. Never was a 
New York crowd so tenderly handled. But it grew, 
springing up, one could almost fancy, from the earth 
beneath. At twenty minutes after seven the Goats' com- 
mittee computed it at five thousand ; and by eight o’clock, 


HOW THE TRICK WAS TURNED ZTt 


to anticipate a bit, the crowd had grown so that the com- 
mittee didn’t even try to guess at it. 

More reserves arrived, and a detail of mounted officers 
came swinging up Broadway at a cavalry trot. They 
charged the throng, and bored a way through the fringe 
of it; but they got no farther — the horses were thrown 
back on their haunches squealing in affright. It was 
like butting against a dam of solid India-rubber, which 
gave way only to rebound into place again. In fact, 
the people were crammed in so from wall to wall on the 
block in which the Allrott stood, a battering-ram could 
not have made headway with them. They couldn’t 
move if they would, and they wouldn’t move if they 
could; to make them would mean the actual slaughter 
of hundreds. To sum the matter up, the police had lost 
control of the situation by not getting it in hand at the 
start. 

It was about this time that two inspectors burst into 
the box-office, where Charley sat with Mr. Verdant 
Wise, Mr. Link, Mr. Teeters and the Pinkertons. The 
inspectors had come around by the stage-door, and they 
were looking worried. 

“Say, Carter,” growled one of them, “this ain’t going 
to do. Broadway is blocked from the Battery up, and 
God knows how far above us. You’ll have to call it off.” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Go ahead and do it.” 

The hum or rather the roar of the crowd came in 
to them. It was like the noise of a myriad of locusts 
settling to the ground. 

“Got a weak throat,” added Charley. “’Fraid I 
couldn’t make ’em hear me.” 

His eyes were dancing now. 

“Well, what’s to be done?” questioned the other man 
gruffly. “If you lift that gate the lobby will be choked 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


228 

in ten seconds. And how are you going to get ’em out 
when you get ’em in ?” 

“Not going to get them out,” said Charley. “Better 
scheme.” 

“What is it? Let’s have it — quick!” 

“All right,” assented Charley. “Get a hundred cops. 
Put forty in the lobby. Line them up from the gate 
to the door. Make a path for one man at a time past 
the window. Rest of cops inside the house. Keep 
everybody in till the cash runs out. Then turn them 
loose. Simple.” 

The two inspectors looked at each other. 

“Shoot me, Jack, if that won’t do it!” barked the 
man who had spoken first. “But we shan’t wait till 
any eight o’clock, Mr. Carter. You’ll begin this show 
right now — understand — as soon as we bring in the 
men.” 

“Suit yourself,” said Charley affably. “Same to me.” 

It was all over by eleven o’clock. The police made 
the crowd come through on a trot past the ticket-window. 
Ten-dollar gold-pieces are easy to handle and there was 
no hitch. The last man did not get the four hundred 
extra, though. There was a woman behind him — a thin, 
pale, tottering young woman who in some miraculous 
way had found strength to hold up against the fright- 
ful crush in the streets. Charley saw her coming just 
as he sang out to the big lieutenant at the gate to drop 
it. He pushed a coin to the one-thousandth man, 
treacherously betraying him, and to the woman he passed 
out two stacks of golden eagles, twenty in each. She 
screamed — made feeble Teachings for the money — and 
crumpled up on the floor. 


CHAPTER XXI 


WHERE THE MONEY WENT 

At twelve o’clock Charley sat in the Dutch Room of 
The Goats’ Club, off in a secluded corner. The house 
was filled with jubilant members. Charley had been 
lauded, applauded and toasted to a standstill, and was 
then called on for a speech. He grinned and responded 
at some length — for him. He said: 

“Forget it. Fun. All over. Merry Christmas.” 

He sat now in his corner, tired but serene. Mr. 
Drew and Mr. Link were with him, and Mr. Teeters, 
of course. A magnum of champagne stood before them 
on the table. Mr. Drew had ordered it. Mr. Verdant 
Wise, who was of the party at first, had left them to 
circulate among closer friends. He was looking the 
part his name implied, and he was a well-contented man. 
If there was anyone in New York who did not know 
about the Allrott at that hour, Mr. Wise would like to 
gaze upon the freak. 

Extras were being cried on the streets, and each 
paper roundly roasted the police for “the unparalleled 
inefficiency displayed in handling the crowd.” Even 
as late as eleven o’clock they had not succeeded in clear- 
ing Broadway. It was only after the gate was dropped 
that the people could be moved. Then the police seemed 
to wake up of a sudden, and a savage tattoo of locust 
229 


230 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


sticks on stubborn heads made the neighborhood look 
like a deserted village in half an hour. 

The Commissioner, it was rumored, was raving like 
a madman in his office, and very nearly as helpless. He 
would have to discipline practically the entire force, if 
he did anything at all. It was a situation he had never 
before encountered, nor any of his predecessors, so 
far as the records showed. 

But at The Goats' they recked little of the troubles 
of the “Finest.” They were celebrating. The Club's 
reputation had been redeemed. The spot-light was play- 
ing on the whole caboodle of them, and they posed in 
happy harmony in its glow. 

And Arrington! He had “come through” like the 
dead-game sport he really was, despite his unpleasant 
way of asserting it. Charley held his check for seventy 
thousand dollars, and a hundred other Goats were 
blessed in aliquot parts of this amount, ranging from 
a thousand dollars down; for Mr. Arrington, being full 
of wine most of the time, and smothered in money all 
of the time, had backed himself against the world. 
Wherefore the Goats were making merry in the fold. 

Mr. Teddy Ball, who had been busy in the writing- 
room turning off picturesque copy to supplement his 
telephoned flashes to the Scream , came leaping down the 
stairs. He thrust an envelope into the hands of a wait- 
ing boy. 

“Scoot!” he ordered. 

The boy ran out of the door, jumped into a cab, 
and went racing off. Mr. Ball then sauntered into the 
Dutch Room like a man of large and elegant leisure, 
though in truth he was alert to possible “follow-ups.” 

“Ha!” vociferated Mr. Teeters as the sporting editor 


WHERE THE MONEY WENT 


231 


approached. “We did it, Teddy! Pulled it off as easy 
as peeling potatoes. You owe me a hundred.” 

“Don’t!” begged Mr. Ball, wrinkling his features to 
express acute mental anguish. “Don’t remind me of it, 
Teet, in my feeble state of health.” 

“And you owe Come-On a hundred too,” persisted 
Mr. Teeters cruelly. 

“Don’t mind my sufferings,” mourned Mr. Ball. “Go 
on and rub it in. I’d have been five hundred ahead of 
the game if it hadn’t been for you and Charley. I’m 
only three hundred as it stands.” 

Charley grinned. 

“Hedged?” he asked. 

“Yes. On Monday after you left. A hunch hit me 
that I was betting on a dead card and I passed the buck 
to Arrington. Have a look.” 

He showed a check for five hundred from the prodigal 
from Pittsburg. Mr. Link winked at Mr. Drew and re- 
marked : 

“Faith, and we didn’t pick any green persimmons our- 
selves, did we, judge?” 

The lawyer’s vest buttons joggled. 

“I’m satisfied,” he admitted. “What has got us guess- 
ing, Ball, is Charley’s statement. He says he isn’t sixty 
thousand to the good.” 

Mr. Ball sat down opposite Charley at the table and 
regarded him earnestly. 

“How much to the good are you, then, Mr. Charles 
Arthur Carter?” he desired to know. 

“Nothing,” Charley answered. “No fun making 
presents if some other chap pays for them. Not my idea 
of Christmas.” 

A look came into the sporting editor’s eyes that one 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


man seldom gives another. And when he does it is worth 
more than minted gold. But he said: 

“Confound you for a blithering idiot, what are you 
going to do with the seventy thousand?” 

Charley hesitated a moment. Then he took the Ar- 
rington check from his pocket. 

“Secret among us five. Not for publication,” he stipu- 
lated. 

“If you say not — no,” sighed Teddy Ball, wishing 
good-by to another scoop. 

Charley laid the check face down on the table, wrote 
two lines on it, and added his signature. He shoved 
the slip of paper over to the Scream man, who glanced 
at it, whistled, and passed it to Mr. Drew, who passed 
it to Mr. Link. Neither made a comment. There were 
too many prick-eared Goats about. 

Mr. Link in turn passed the check to Mr. Teeters. 
That artless person goggled at it and wiggled his mus- 
tache. 

“Gollamighty !” he squeaked. “Police Pension ” 

“Shut up, you ass!” hissed Mr. Ball. “It’s a good 
cause, Charley. And the Lord knows they need it.” 

Mr. Drew, who had called for a glass for Mr. Ball 
and filled it, raised his own. He did not stand ; it would 
attract attention to them. 

“Mr. Carter!” 

The attorney's manner was forensic, and Charley 
scanned him in surprise. 

“Mr. Carter,” went on Mr. Drew orotundly, “you 
are an abandoned spendthrift, sir — a horrible example 
of free-handed, great-hearted, magnificent munificence, 
and you will very likely die in the poorhouse. But at 
the present moment you are — and I defy contradiction 
— the most-to-be-envied man in this city of New York. 


WHERE THE MONEY WENT 


233 


“You have, in your — er — simple way, gladdened the 
hearts of thousands on the eve of the fairest day em- 
blazoned on the Christian calendar. May the” — he 
caught a twinkle in Charley’s eye, and stepped down 
precipitately from his stilts — “may the deuce take you, 
sir!” he finished, then added: “I wish you, my dear 
boy, a Merry Christmas, and — and — oh, hang it — drink, 
you jackanapes ! And all of you !” 

They laughed and they drank. Then Mr. Link spoke. 
It was apparently irrelevant to the immediate proceed- 
ings, yet all seemed to understand him. He replaced 
his glass on the table and observed with an air of in- 
tense self-astonishment: 

“May the devil fly away with me! That explains a 
whole lot of things!” 

“Sure,” said Charley, 


CHAPTER XXII 


A MEETING IN THE RAIN 

It was one of those lovely February nights in New 
York when you make up your mind to take out an 
accident policy the first thing in the morning. At nine 
o’clock it was clear as a bell, with a gentle breeze from 
the west, bearing on its wings faint tidings from Wee- 
hawken, Secaucus, and other perfumed points in Jersey. 
At ten-thirty the wind shifted sharp to Yonkers, and 
then, realizing its mistake no doubt, shrieked down from 
that tame, torpid town as if in a tearing hurry to get 
away from it. It was crying rain — the wind — as it 
whooped along, a cold, needle-like rain that froze hard 
as it fell and made a dirty mirror of the streets, treach- 
erous to the foot as a waxed floor to a Wallabout widow. 

Mr. Teeters surveyed the scene in dismay as he and 
Mr. Carter made their way, step by step with the crowd, 
down the lobby of the Allrott Theater, where a long 
deferred success was nightly packing the house. 

“Merry Moses !” he exclaimed. “We got to skate 
across to Chatty’s eat-shop, Come-On, if it’s there you’re 
going. We oughter had the car come for us. I told 


Charley cut him short by the simple expedient of 
thrusting his elbow into Mr. Teeters’s floating-ribs. 

“Stow it!” he admonished in a tone the secretary 
recognized as final. 


234 


A MEETING IN THE RAIN 


235 


A man in a flashy business suit touched off with an 
ensanguined bow-tie glanced at them and pushed on to 
the street. Just in front of Charley was a wondrously 
pretty girl who had half turned her head at Mr. Tee- 
ters’s querulous plaint, and had as quickly turned it 
away on catching Charley’s eye. There was a dimple in 
the corner of her mouth, born of a smothered smile, and 
it was this that was responsible for the sudden and 
painful compression of Mr. Teeters’s costal appendages. 
Mr. Carter did not relish being made conspicuous in 
the sight of this young and dainty beauty. 

When they reached the street the girl shrank back 
from the glassy pavement and roaring gale into the shel- 
ter of the doorway. Her companion, an elderly man, 
said something to her and started for a limousine which 
was next in line to the car directly abreast of the en- 
trance. Possibly he was going for an umbrella, or an 
additional wrap, but whatever his errand it was a gro- 
tesque failure. He teetered three steps toward the curb, 
slipped half a dozen more, then lurched to leeward and 
sailed helplessly past his machine to the second one 
behind it, where he brought up flat-seated on the running 
board a picture of dismantled dignity and droll despair. 

In the meantime Charley and the girl were doing a 
wholly impromptu sketch of their own. The girl had 
uttered a little scream when she witnessed her elderly 
companion’s antics on the ice. Then with one of those 
amazing feminine impulses — as easily to be accounted 
for as the spots on the sun — she darted forward to save 
him from a fall. Charley darted after her. As her 
feet went out from under her, as he knew they would, 
he caught her in his arms and with the momentum 
gained slid with her straight as an arrow to the door 
of her own machine. 


236 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Charley helped her in. A bunch of violets fell from 
her corsage crushed and mangled to the floor. Charley 
remembered it later, and the perfume of them seemed 
all about him for hours after. Just then they were 
too much occupied with each other to think of trifling 
details. Both were a little breathless and the maid was 
rosy red. Charley was more than that — his face was a 
conflagration. The older man by this time had managed 
to crawl up to them. 

“By Jove, sir,” he gasped, “I am in your debt. That 
was well done!” 

“Wasn’t it, Papa!” cried the girl. She put out her 
hand to Charley with a charming gesture. “You saved 
me from a nasty fall. Thank you — so very much!” 

“Nothing at all,” stammered Charley. “Pleasure. 
Wish I could do it over again.” 

He blurted this out in a manner so absolutely artless 
and sincere, and with a face so crimsoned with con- 
fusion that the man, after a quick survey of him, laughed 
and said: 

“May we not set you down somewhere, in partial 
payment of my daughter’s debt?” 

“Much obliged,” Charley answered. “Only going 
across the street.” 

Impatient cries to move on were being hurled at 
them, and the man, with a kindly tap on Charley’s shoul- 
der, stepped into the car. 

“My name is George Francis Grant,” he mentioned. 
“We may meet again some day.” 

The girl leaned forward expectantly, but Charley’s 
wits were thick as wool just then. The door closed be- 
fore he thought to give his name in return. The girl 
looked back as they drove off, and the smile she flashed 
at him left Charley a ruin where he stood, his head 


A MEETING IN THE RAIN 


237 

bared to the pelting storm and his heart hammering 
in his ears. 

When he came to fully, Mr. Carter found himself 
mechanically feeding on a lobster souffle at Chatty’s with 
Mr. Teeters goggling at him from across the table. And, 
as it happened, the man in the loud clothes and blood- 
red tie, who had crowded by them at the theater, was 
sitting alone at a neighboring table, giving them an 
occasional curious glance. 

‘'Jiminy Crips, Come-On!” ejaculated Mr. Teeters. 
“That girl must have put the jinx on you. You ain’t 
heard a word I been saying.” 

Charley raised his head and contemplated his secre- 
tary with a frown. Then he said: 

“Write it down. Read it to me in the morning.” 
And he added, “Got enough of this. Tired. Going 
home.” 

He pushed his plate away and beckoned to the waiter. 
The man at the next table who, it seemed, had paid 
his scot in advance, rose and sauntered into the ad- 
joining room. 

“Gollamighty, Come-On,” quarreled Mr. Teeters, “we 
got something more coming to us — a baked Alaska, 
and ” 

“Tooth-ache,” said Charley shortly. “Ear-ache, too. 
Shut up!” 

Mr. Teeters, to whom his chief was revealing him- 
self in a totally unaccustomed light, wiggled his mus- 
tache and stared, but wisely refrained from further 
speech. Nevertheless he was worried. Perhaps Charley 
was coming down with some kind of sickness — a fever, 
maybe, or one of those quick things that carry you off 
before you know it. Mr. Teeters little suspected his 
friend was in the initial stages of a malady as common 


238 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


as malaria and infinitely easier of cure. And so he 
trailed after Charley to the door in a stew of direful 
forebodings. 

A shallow canopy of agate glass extends along the 
front of Chatty’s, affording some slight shelter from the 
weather. Charley paused under this to inspect the line 
of cabs at the curb, and as he did so a woman’s voice 
came to him pleadingly: 

“Oh ! Won’t you please protect me from this man !” 

Charley veered sharply to the right. The person with 
the red necktie was standing under the canopy at the 
other door of the restaurant talking rapidly to a slim, 
tall girl who was shrinking from him with outflung, 
warding hands. The freezing rain beat upon her, and 
the wind whipped her skirts about her knees until she 
was imprisoned in them beyond the power to flee. 

“Please!” she cried again. 

Charley sprang forward and Mr. Teeters, with a yelp, 
followed. Chatty had seen to it that his walk was 
sprinkled deep with sand. The footing was secure. But 
it was quite as good for the man as for Charley, and 
he made his escape around the corner without a fall. 
There was no fight in the creature, apparently. 

“Sorry I couldn’t nail him,” said Charley, when he 
returned. “Brute.” 

“Oh ! I was so frightened !” panted the young woman. 
“I was caught in the storm and was trying to get home. 
It was hard going. I fell twice. I stopped here to catch 
my breath, and — and he spoke to me.” 

Charley looked at her closely. She, too, was pretty, 
but of a different type from the other — that other ! This 
girl was dark of hair and eyes, and the other — her hair 
was gold, her eyes were amethyst, and her voice was 
soft as the trill of drowsy birds ! She was like a fairy 


A MEETING IN THE RAIN 


239 


princess in her wraps of fur, while this one — she was 
just a girl! You could find her in dozens — hundreds — 
in the big office buildings downtown. There were mil- 
lions like her everywhere. But Charley said to her 
gravely : 

“Oughtn’t to try to walk. Going to get you a cab.” 

The girl dropped her eyes. 

“I haven’t any money,” she confessed. “It’s not far. 
I came out on an — an errand just before it began to 
storm, and I waited, hoping it would stop.” 

Charley signaled to a cab. 

“You’re going to ride,” he said to her firmly. “Pleas- 
ure to be of service. All brothers and sisters when in 
trouble.” 

He pressed a bill into her hand and, taking her by 
the arm, led her to the cab. Mr. Teeters stood back 
and watched them. She made only a feeble resistance 
to Charley’s summary disposal of her. 

“I will return the money,” she told him as he placed 
her in the taxi. “I would like your name and address, 
please.” 

Charley demurred, but she insisted — imperiously now 
— and he gave it to her. 

“Where to?” he asked. 

She hesitated. 

“West Thirty-eighth Street. I will give the man the 
number.” She put out her hand, like that other girl 
and yet so unlike! “I — I thank you more than I can 
say,” she faltered prettily. “Perhaps I can do you a 
favor some day. Who knows ? Good-by.” 

She drove away. Charley and Mr. Teeters took a cab 
themselves. 

“Hully gee!” exploded the secretary, unable longer to 
contain himself. “It’s raining girls to-night, Come-On !” 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


MO 

Charley made no answer. He was pulling absently 
at a perfecto in his corner of the seat. When they 
reached the Hotel Rirebien he requested Mr. Teeters 
to wait for him at the elevator, and marched over to 
the desk. To the clerk he said, without preamble of 
any kind: 

“George Francis Grant. Middle height. Middle-aged. 
Gray hair. Handsome. Know about him? ,, 

The clerk smiled. 

“Just a little. Plutocrat, yachtsman, all-around good 
sport. And say, he’s got a daughter — Dorothy — who is 
some peach! They print her picture in the Sunday 
papers every time she gets engaged.” 

“Thanks,” said Charley soberly. 

He consulted a telephone directory, made a note from 
it, and went upstairs and to bed. 

It was after lunch the next day, a Tuesday. Charley 
was lounging in his sitting-room when a special delivery 
letter came for him. The envelope bore the imprint of 
the Marvel Machine Company, Olympic Building, Wil- 
liam Street, New York. Mr. Teeters, in his capacity 
of private secretary, was wont to open his chief’s mail. 
It consisted mostly of screeds from professional beg- 
gars and the like, and they bored Charley to extinction. 
Mr. Teeters usually destroyed them without comment. 
This letter, though, was different. When he opened it a 
two-dollar bill dropped out. 

“Ha!” he yapped. “Who’s this subscribing for our 
new church organ?” 

Charley showed interest. A night’s sleep and two 
good meals had checked his malady. He wasn’t cured, 
but his condition was improved. He was helped a 
little also by the remembrance of what the clerk 
downstairs hr; : said. Dorothy Grant was a flirt, or 


A MEETING IN THE RAIN 


241 


she wouldn’t have been engaged so many times. 

“It’s that girl you sent home in a crate from Chatty’s,” 
went on Mr. Teeters. “She’s fired the label back.” 

“Read what she says,” commanded Charley. 

Mr. Teeters did so, spreading out on the table a letter- 
sheet with a severely plain but embossed heading. 

Dear Mr. Carter: 

Thank you again. I know now who you are. 
Of course, for I read the papers. I am wondering 
if I cannot do you a favor in return for yours. I 
am private secretary to Mr. Barlow, treasurer of 
this company. They are going to enlarge the busi- 
ness. There is a wonderful chance for investment. 
Perhaps you might care to look into it. If so, 
call me up before five to-day and, if I can, I will 
make an appointment for to-morrow. The time is 
short. 

Sincerely yours, 

Jane Harding. 

There was a postscript — there always is when a 
woman writes. Mr. Teeters declaimed it with tremen- 
dous satisfaction. 

P. s. — Was it Mr. Percival Teeters who was with 
you last night — the tall, distinguished looking man? 
I have read about him too. 

“Made a hit,” Charley said to his secretary with- 
out the hint of a smile. “How do you do it, Skeeters ?” 

Mr. Teeters got up and deliberately surveyed him- 
self in the mirror between the windows. He combed 
his drooping auburn mustache with his fingers and let 


242 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


his pale blue eyes wander over his amazing cutaway of 
Florida-green cassimere picked out with magenta stripes. 

“Blessed if I know/' he replied with a rakish air. 
“It’s always been that way. I can’t help it. What 
say, Come-On, to calling up that wren? Won’t do 
any harm to find out what she’s got baking in the oven. 
It may be good enough to eat.” 

Charley said nothing, and Mr. Teeters pursued the 
tenor of his thoughts. 

“We ain’t been stirring round much lately. Since 
the con men stubbed their toes on us and found we was 
full of lead there ain’t been nothing doing. It’s been 
dull as an old ladies’ picnic down in the wood lot back 
of the barn. If this little Jenny- Jane can tip you ofif 
to a piece of pie that’s got something real between the 
lids, why not take a bite? Hey?” 

Mr. Teeters, perceiving he had Charley going, played 
a clincher: 

“And there’s your Uncle William’s money. You got 
$840,000 salted in the bank, but you got to swell it to 
a million, old Drew says, before you can hook on to 
Uncle Billy’s wad. Maybe here’s your chance — a real 
business — Marvel Machine Company. Gosh, I wish I 
had a bale of hay as big as yours!” 

Charley broke his silence. 

“All right. Call her up. No harm to talk it over.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


BIG BUSINESS 

The next day at one o’clock, by appointment, Mr. 
Carter’s limousine stood before the Olympic Building 
in William Street, while Mr. Carter and Mr. Teeters 
went up to the tenth floor to the offices of the Marvel 
Machine Company. 

Miss Harding received them in an outer room. She 
was looking trim and pretty in a neat gray suit with 
something fluffy about the neck. Mr. Teeters ogled her 
in his most destructive manner, but aside from one swift, 
fluttering glance at him, she gave no evidence of the 
burning gaze he fixed upon her. She was cordial, yet 
all business. 

“I have spoken to Mr. Barlow about you,” she said 
to Charley. “He was rather put out at first — he has 
his own way of doing things — but he has consented to 
see you.” 

Charley looked at the ground-glass door to the next 
room. It was inscribed chastely in gold with the gen- 
tleman’s name and title — • 

J. A. BARLOW, TREASURER 

“Much obliged to him,” said Charley. “Shall we go 
in?” 

“Not yet,” smiled the girl. “Mr. Vanderfelt is with 

243 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


244 

him. You know — the Real Estate King.” She hesi- 
tated, and added: “They have been having a stormy 
session in there. Mr. Vanderfelt wishes to buy the con- 
trolling interest in our company, and Mr. Barlow won’t 
listen to it. But write your name on this pad, please 
— your full name. I will take it in as soon as Mr. Bar- 
low is disengaged.” 

“Give you a card,” offered Charley, feeling for his 
case. But the girl stopped him. 

“No, not that; the pad, please.” She laughed, as at 
a humorous conceit. “Mr. Barlow rather prides him- 
self on reading character in handwriting — chiro-some- 
thing-or-other he calls it. He is quite possessed by it.” 

“Oh, sure,” said Charley, and wrote his name in full 
on the pad. 

He had scarcely finished when the door of the inner 
office popped open and a stout, florid man came out. 
This person was chewing on the moist stump of a thick 
cigar, and he seemed to be under high pressure. He 
glared at Charley and Mr. Teeters, then swung around 
on his heel and bawled back into the other room. 

“A last word, Barlow. I’ll make it a hundred and 
eighty thousand dollars. That’s final. Just because 
you’ve got a good thing don’t let it turn your head. 
What d’ye say?” 

A short, snappy voice responded. 

“No! Not in a million years!” 

The stout man rolled a pair of bilious eyes frightfully. 

“You’re a fool!” he yelled. “An idiot! An ass! 
Bah!” 

With this explosive utterance he blew himself out into 
the hall, banging the door after him. Miss Harding 
smiled amusedly at the two young men. 

“He’ll be back to-morrow,” she observed, speaking 


BIG BUSINESS 


245 


guardedly and with a glance at the treasurer’s door. “It’s 
his way. He has raised his bid twice in two days.” 

She tore the slip with Charley’s name on it from the 
pad and was moving off when Mr. Teeters hailed her. 

“Say! I ain’t written my name yet. I got a char- 
acter. Let him take a hack at that, too, while he’s in 
his trance.” 

The girl scanned him from under her heavy lashes, 
and then she laughed. Obviously Mr. Teeters had 
jumped to the conclusion that Mr. Barlow’s fad was 
akin to clairvoyancy or other mystic art. 

“He doesn’t do it that way,” she said. “He studies 
the lines and curves of the letters. Of course he wants 
your name. Mr. Vanderfelt — the confusion — made me 
forget.” 

She took the slip Mr. Teeters handed her and went 
into the private office, closing the door softly behind 
her. 

“What do you know about it, Come-On?” chattered 
the gleeful secretary when she had gone. “Something 
big, turning down a hundred and eighty thousand yel- 
low dogs like that! Hey?” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Wonder what they do? Mar- 
vel Machine Company. What kind of machine?” 

“By gum!” cried Mr. Teeters. “I bet it’s flying ma- 
chines. A new kind, maybe. Wind ’em up like a seven- 
day clock, and off you go!” 

Miss Harding’s return put an end to further brilliant 
flights on Mr. Teeters’s part. 

“Walk in, please,” she invited, holding the door for 
them. “Mr. Barlow, this gentleman is Mr. Carter. Mr. 
Teeters, Mr. Barlow.” 

She left them alone with the treasurer of the Marvel 
Machine Company. He was a powerfully built man who 


246 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


had ridden down his fortieth year. He had a square 
jaw, a close-cropped brown mustache, and cloudy, steel- 
hued eyes. He did not offer to shake hands. He re- 
mained seated at an enormous desk in the middle of 
the room, and motioned them to draw up chairs. The 
desk was littered with papers. A check-book lay at his 
elbow, sprawled open, the stubs showing plentifully. 
And a blue-print from an architect’s drawings was 
half spread out and weighted down over at one side 
amid the papers. 

“Miss Harding was officious,” spoke up Mr. Barlow 
curtly. “We are not seeking investors ; but she has been 
with us a long time and I have overlooked her indis- 
cretion.” 

“Sorry,” said Charley. “And besides ” 

“One minute!” broke in Mr. Barlow. “You are a 
man of determination, shrewd, clear-sighted, quick to 
form accurate estimates of values and as quick to act 
on them. Your judgment is sound. I gain that from 
your autograph.” 

Charley warmed under this diagnosis of his character. 
He could not help it. He had never seen himself in 
such a stimulating light before. 

“You, sir,” said the treasurer, turning to Mr. Teeters, 
“have more of the poetic in your nature. You have 
imagination, intuition, and the faculty of sizing up men 
— and more especially women — at their true worth. You 
would be a dangerous man to attempt to deceive. That 
is what I read in your sign manual.” 

Mr. Teeters wiggled his mustache and gazed at the 
speaker in a welter of pleasurable emotions. How the 
deuce could this chap point him off so true to life! 

“It’s my hobby,” vouchsafed the man at the desk with 


BIG BUSINESS 


247 


a fleeting smile. “I never talk business to anyone till 
I see the sort of fist they write.” 

“Goocf scheme,” remarked Charley, not knowing what 
else to say. 

“Now, before we go farther,” continued Mr. Bar- 
low, “let me impress it on you that we wouldn’t sell 
the controlling interest in this business — not to the King 
of England, if he came with his crown in his hand ! No, 
sir!” 

Mr. Barlow smote the desk with his hand to em- 
phasize his adamantine resolution on this head. Then 
he said: 

‘We have fourteen hundred shares of treasury stock 
— a forty per cent, interest — which we will sell at par; 
precisely one hundred and forty thousand dollars, no 
more, no less, though it ought to bring a premium. We 
are paying now a twenty-four per cent, yearly dividend. 
Our fiscal year begins on the fifteenth — day after to- 
morrow — Friday — and we shall pay on all stock issued 
by noon of Thursday our regular quarterly dividend of 
six per cent. In other words, whoever buys this treasury 
stock before to-morrow noon will get eighty-four hun- 
dred dollars. It’s like finding so much money in the 
street.” 

“Come-On!” piped Mr. Teeters in a quiver of excite- 
ment. “Didn’t I tell you! It’s a chance!” 

“Wait!” enjoined Mr. Barlow sternly. “You must 
clearly understand one thing. We are selling this treas- 
ury stock simply because we’ve got to enlarge our busi- 
ness right away to take care of the demand. We are 
working on too small a cash margin. We need money 
to build a new factory” — he jerked a thumb at the 
blue-print — “and increase our force, and we don’t want 
this money from scheming financiers like that pirate 


248 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Vanderfelt who just went out of here. We want, along 
with the money, a man of executive ability whose coun- 
sel will be of value to us. In short, we want in our 
business ” 

“What is the business ?” interrupted Charley, looking 
a little ashamed of the question, however. 

Mr. Barlow fell limply back in his chair. Consterna- 
tion was written on his features. 

“Great heavens !” he exclaimed, and repeated it — 
“Great heavens! Do you mean to say you haven’t 
heard of the Marvel Vacuum Cleaner?” 

“Oh,” responded Mr. Teeters vaguely, “it’s a soap!” 

Mr. Barlow choked back a strong word. He got up 
and went over to a corner by the window. An instru- 
ment with a long handle, a steel mouth and a dust-bag 
attachment was propped up in the corner. He dragged 
this forth. It was connected by a cord with an electric 
light bracket on the wall. Mr. Barlow turned on the 
current and proceeded to give a practical demonstration 
of carpet cleaning. 

“That’s the kind of a machine we’ve got,” he con- 
cluded pridefully. “See the name lettered on it — Mar- 
vel Vacuum Cleaner. Call up any department store 
anywhere and ask ’em about it — any place that sells 
house or hotel supplies — and they’ll tell you it’s a world 
beater.” 

“Sure,” said Charley, confidently now. “They use it 
in the Rirebien. Good thing.” 

“Best ever!” chimed in Mr. Teeters. “Sucks the dirt 
up like eating soup.” 

Mr. Barlow sat down at his desk again. 

“Ask about us anywhere,” he begged them. “Look 
us up in Dun’s or Bradstreet’s. And wait!” 

This appeared to be a favorite injunction with the 


BIG BUSINESS 


249 


gentleman. He drew the telephone to him and called 
up the Midland National Bank. 

“Give me the bookkeeping department — letter M,” 
he requested. “That you, Mr. Arthur? This is Mr. 
Barlow of the Marvel Company. A stockholder” — he 
winked at Charley — “wishes to know our exact balance 
with you at this moment, as your books show it. Please 
tell him.” 

He handed the receiver to Charley, who listened to 
the voice at the other end of the wire and handed back 
the cylinder to Barlow. 

“Thank you; that's all,” said the treasurer, and rang 
off. He addressed Charley. “Thirty-seven thousand 
three hundred and twenty-two fifty, wasn't it?” 

Charley told him he was right. 

“Less eight thousand, seven hundred and sixty he 
doesn't know about,” explained the other. “Dividends 
I've been checking out to mail on Friday.” He ges- 
tured carelessly toward the open check-book. “Our 
working balance is small because we use the money up 
in manufacturing. That's the reason we need more — to 
expand. Now how do you stand?” 

“Don't get you,” replied Charley puzzled. 

Mr. Barlow strove to contain himself. 

“Is your check good for a hundred and forty thou- 
sand?” he snapped. “I can't waste my time in idle 
talk, sir. It's play or pass with me.” 

Charley grinned and reached for the telephone. 

“Guess I can scrape it up,” he stated while waiting 
for his bank to give him the cashier. When he finally 
got that official he said to him: 

“Hello, Mr. Billings. This is Charley Carter of the 
Rirebien. What's my balance with you?” There was 


250 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


a short delay, then Charley passed the receiver over 
to Barlow. “Repeat it, please,” he called into the trans- 
mitter. “Much obliged,” he added and motioned to the 
Marvel man to hang up. 

A dull red flush had mounted to the latter’s cheek. 
He seemed to be a bit flustered. Possibly the size of 
Charley’s bank balance had startled him. But he re- 
covered himself. He took a book from a drawer and 
opened it, displaying a green sheet impressively en- 
graved and ornamented. Without speaking he filled 
in the blanks on this sheet, signed it, affixed a gilt wafer 
in the corner, stamped it with the seal of the corpora- 
tion, and shoved it over to Mr. Carter. 

“Fourteen hundred shares,” he said crisply. 

Charley gazed at the certificate curiously. Mr. Tee- 
ters leaned over and peered at it. Mr. Barlow touched 
a button and a bell rang in the outer office. Miss Hard- 
ing appeared on the instant. 

“Has Mr. Gouldby come?” demanded the treasurer. 

Miss Harding advanced a step or two. 

“He is waiting to see you,” she answered in a low 
tone. “He will take the stock, he says. He has brought 
a certified check ” 

“Tell him he’s too late! Send him away! The deal 
is closed!” 

This was fired at the girl like shots from a gatling, 
and she went out hastily. 

“By George! Say !” objected Charley. “I haven’t ” 

“Wait!” 

Mr. Barlow shut him off peremptorily. He snatched 
up his check-book, wrote rapidly in it, tore out the check, 
and tossed it over on the stock certificate. 

“That’s the quarterly dividend, by the way — eighty- 
four hundred dollars. We might as well fix it up now.” 


BIG BUSINESS 


251 


“Gollamighty, Come-On, it’s a cinch !” broke out Mr. 
Teeters impassionedly. 

Charley still hung back. Mr. Barlow punched the but- 
ton angrily. 

“Has Gouldby gone ?” he barked at the girl. 

“Yes — and he was very disagreeable,” she returned 
with spirit. “He is going out of town at four, and he 
expected to close for the stock before he left. He said 
you’d thrown him down.” 

Mr. Barlow waved her away and scowled at Charley. 

“I’ve let a man go who was ready with his money! 
What’s the matter? Afraid?” 

“Come-On!” pleaded Mr. Teeters. 

“Good thing,” conceded Charley. “Where’s the fac- 
tory? Like to see it first.” 

Mr. Barlow pulled out a drawer and bent over it, 
rummaging the contents. He was at it some time and 
finally slammed the drawer back with an impatient ex- 
clamation. 

“I thought I had a picture of the plant,” he declared, 
“but I remember now, Vanderfelt has it. However, 
we’ll run out and take a look at it, if you mean busi- 
ness. Do you ?” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Just want to have a peek 
for myself. Natural.” 

“Quite,” growled Mr. Barlow. “Let me see.” He 
stared out of the window. “We’ll say to-morrow at 
eleven. We can close the thing up at the factory. You 
want to get in on that dividend.” 

“Sure,” grinned Charley. “Where did you say the 
factory was?” 

“I didn’t say. But it’s over in Jersey. I’ll take you 
there in my machine. Eleven sharp.” He rang for Miss 
Harding. “Show the gentlemen out,” he bade her gruf- 


252 


COME ON CHARLEY 


fly. “And I’m not in to anybody. We have a directors' 
meeting at two.” 

Without the formality even of a parting word the 
busy treasurer of the Marvel Machine Company plunged 
into a pile of papers before him, and Charley and Mr. 
Teeters almost tiptoed from his presence. 


CHAPTER XXI^ 


A CASE OF GIRL 

Coincidence! Do you believe in it? If you do not 
look back over your life and — if you have lived at all — 
you will recall strange meetings, partings, interferences 
and the like which you may have thought were acci- 
dental, but which were really coincidental. Perhaps you 
would prefer to call it concurrental. It sounds well — 
only there is no such word. Now watch the coincidences 
that follow here. 

Charley in driving uptown from the Olympic Build- 
ing passed Green’s, the florist. There was a huge bank 
of Carolina violets in one window and Charley, spying 
it, caught up the speaking tube and bade his man stop 
the machine. Charley got out. Mr. Teeters would have 
done likewise, but was unceremoniously checked. 

“Sit still,” Mr. Carter ordered him. “Count the peo- 
ple going north. Tell me when I come back.” 

He went into Green’s. Mr. Teeters began to count. 
He was afraid not to do it. Charley was queer at times. 

Inside the shop Mr. Carter drew a visiting-card from 
his case and wrote his address on it. Flirt or no flirt, 
Dorothy should know him by name and number. Per- 
haps — but he allowed his thought to go no farther. He 
handed his card, together with a ten-dollar note, to a 
clerk. His instructions to him were a model of brevity. 
He said: 


253 


254 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Violets. Miss Dorothy Grant. Fifth Avenue and 
Seventy-fourth Street. Hurry !” 

He turned abruptly and walked out. Mr. Teeters, half 
distracted with his task, greeted him with a wail. 

“Merry Moses, Come-On, I ain’t got more’n two eyes, 
and you need a hundred to count this mess of crabs. 
I’m all mixed up!” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Forget it.” 

“Huh !” grumbled Mr. Teeters. “After all that 
trouble!” 

He wanted to ask Charley whom he was sending 
flowers to, but prudence forbade it; there was a pro- 
trusion to his chin just then Mr. Teeters did not like. 

They were blocked for a moment after leaving 
Green’s. Another car, coming south, was just abreast 
of theirs, passing slowly, and as he casually glanced 
into it Charley’s heart very nearly popped out from be- 
tween his teeth. The Girl — Dorothy — was looking 
straight at him — full in the eyes ! And she was smiling. 
At him! Before he could raise his hat — before he 
could even swallow his heart and breathe again — she 
was whirled from his sight. 

Mr. Teeters saw, and he understood now his friend’s 
remarkable behavior at Chatty’s and afterward. He also 
divined the cause of Charley’s swooping call on the 
florist. But he kept his counsel ; the fear of bodily vio- 
lence was on him. He rejoiced openly when night came 
and Mr. Drew and Teddy Ball dropped in, as they had 
the habit of doing several times a week, both being un- 
blessed and blissful bachelors. Charley had been as taci- 
turn all the afternoon as a railway ticket agent, and 
Mr. Teeters had undergone a martyrdom of silence. 
He took courage in the presence of the visitors. 

“Have a look at the remains,” he begged them, with a 


A CASE OF GIRL 


255 


flourish of the hand at Mr. Carter, who was sitting at 
the table. “The rosy posies got switched off to the 
wrong address, but maybe they’ll send ’em back in time 
to decorate the grave.” 

He cackled loudly at this witticism. 

“What’s up?” Mr. Ball desired to know. 

Charley fixed his secretary with a menacing eye, but 
Mr. Teeters was reckless now and kept on. 

“Gosh darn it, Come-On, what’s the use? Tell ’em 
about it and take a load off your chest. It’s a case of 
girl,” he explained to the others. “Came on all of a 
sudden Monday night at the theater. He’s been woozy 
in his head ever since.” 

With this Mr. Teeters recounted the incident at the 
Allrott, taking care, however, to keep well away from 
Mr. Carter’s immediate vicinity. 

“And,” he wound up, “he’s been sending her flowers! 
Little buds of bunk to his baby-doll! What do you 
know about that?” 

Mr. Drew’s vest buttons heaved, but Mr. Ball, with an 
expression of deep concern, approached the patient. 

“Where does it hurt most, Charles?” he inquired so- 
licitously. “Is it in just one spot, or are you broken 
out all over?” 

Charley gave him a sickly grin, and snatched a book 
from the table and flung it at him. Mr. Ball expertly 
dodged it and sought the shelter of Mr. Drew’s portly 
form. 

“He’s violent!” he shrieked. “Save me!” 

Mr. Drew shook him off and sat down. 

“Who is she, Charley?” he questioned. “You might 
as well tell and have done with it.” 

Charley looked at the mocking face of Mr. Ball and 


25 6 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


at Mr. Teeters’s leering countenance. The lawyer was 
right; it would be better to have it over with. 

“Her father is George Francis Grant,” he said quietly. 
“Gentleman.” 

Mr. Drew whistled softly. 

“Wow!” whooped Teddy Ball. “I should say he was! 
Cup defender. Ex-polo champion. Baseball fan. Box- 
fight patron. A sport to the marrow. Say, Charley, 
we’re like brothers, Grant and me. He calls me by my 
first name and I smoke his cigars. I’ve never happened 
to meet his daughter or we’d have been married long ago. 
By Jove, you’re in luck, young fellow, to get in with 
George Grant!” 

Mr. Drew regarded his protege with a thoughtful air. 
A rich marriage might solve the problem that confronted 
the attorney — how to explain away his practical joke 
about the Halstead millions. A happy bridegroom is an 
easy man to handle. 

“Don’t know my name even,” Charley replied to Mr. 
Ball somberly. “Forgot to give it to him.” 

“Rattled!” gibed the Scream man. “O mush! But 
I’ll fix it for you. He has an office downtown. Grant 
Estate. I’ll take you to see him. It’s in the Olympic 
Building, fifteenth floor.” 

“Why — that’s where we was to-day, Come-On!” vo- 
ciferated Mr. Teeters. 

“What’s that? You went to Grant’s office?” Mr. Ball, 
who was grinding the end off a fat cigar with his teeth, 
suspended the operation in surprise. 

“No,” Charley answered for his secretary. “Didn’t 
know about it. Wish I had. Went to see the Marvel 
Machine Company, tenth floor.” 

It was Mr. Drew’s turn to exhibit surprise. 


A CASE OF GIRL 


257 


“Do you mean the company that makes the vacuum 
cleaner ?” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “J. A. Barlow, treasurer. Got 
a deal on with him.” 

“I know his brother well,” rejoined the attorney. “Bill 
Barlow. He’s a member of the Solicitors’ Club. See 
him nearly every day at lunch. I’ve never met J. A. 
What is your deal with him, Charley?” 

“Tell him, Skeeters.” Charley shifted the burden of 
explanation to his secretary’s shoulders. He despised 
explanations or speech of any kind which required a con- 
tinuity of words. 

“Wait!” said Mr. Teeters, unconsciously echoing J. 
A. Barlow. 

He had an eye for the dramatic, especially when it 
brought himself into the limelight. He hunted around 
for Miss Harding’s letter. When he found it he re- 
quested Messrs. Drew and Ball to peruse it, posing the 
while in an attitude of prideful complacency. He was 
waiting for them to come to the postscript, wherein 
his distinguished appearance received its merited tribute. 

“Go on, Merciful,” urged Mr. Ball presently. “There’s 
only one thing phoney about this letter.” 

“Hey? What is it?” 

“The last part,” returned Mr. Ball unfeelingly, and 
lighted his cigar. 

Mr. Teeters passed the slur over with silent con- 
tempt, and related the incident at Chatty’s which re- 
sulted in the letter. He then described in his own 
picturesque way their visit to the Marvel Machine 
Company’s offices, and concluded with his personal im- 
pressions of the advantages that would accrue to Char- 
ley from the pending deal. 

Mr. Ball gave ear to him with a puzzled frown. 


258 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“It seems to me I interviewed that Barlow chap once,” 
he observed. “It was on the Carpet-Sweeper Trust. 
He was a director in it or something. I thought the 
Marvel people were in Nassau Street — the Orient Build- 
ing — but probably they’ve moved. It’s a year or more 
since I quizzed old Barlow.” 

“Not so old. Got all his teeth,” amended Charley. 

“Oh, well,” yielded Mr. Ball, dismissing the matter 
in a cloud of smoke, “I’m barking up the wrong tree, I 
guess. Must be somebody else I’m thinking of.” 

“Bill Barlow’s fifty. I don’t know whether he’s older 
or younger than his brother,” mused Mr. Drew. “When 
is it you’re going to the factory, Charley? What time 
to-morrow ?” 

“Eleven o’clock. Barlow’s car.” 

“If Barlow doesn’t object I’ll go along,” proposed 
Mr. Drew. “I wouldn’t mind taking a block of that 
stock myself. I’m surprised they are hunting money.” 

“They’re not,” said Charley, grinning. “It’s hunting 
them. Only luck that I got a chance at it.” 

A knock was given at the door. Mr. Teeters went to 
it and returned with a mincing step. He bore gingerly 
between thumb and forefinger a small square envelope, 
monogramed, and of faint, elusive fragrance. 

“Left for Mr. Carter by private messenger,” he pro- 
claimed unctuously. “It’s from a la-a-dy!” 

Charley eyed him in slow astonishment. Then, as a 
startled hope sprang up and scurried around in him 
like a frightened rabbit in a cabbage patch, his face grew 
brick-red and his hand shook as he held it out for the 
missive. But Mr. Ball was before him. He was 
rambling aimlessly about the room enveloped in a fog 
of cinerating Havana, and now pounced on Mr. Teeters 
and dispossessed him of his prize. 


A CASE OF GIRL 


259 


“Um-um !” He sniffed avidly at the note and indulged 
in various facial contortions. “From a lady. O' popper! 
And who is the little dear, I wonder?” He squinted 
at the monogram. “D. M. G. Goodness me! Now 
what can that stand for, do you suppose — Dolly Molly 
Gushgiddy, or Delia Melia Gidgushy? Let’s take a 
peek inside and see.” 

He made a great pretense of opening the note, but 
so far as the effect produced on Charley went it missed 
the mark. He had recovered his poise. 

“Welcome,” he said pleasantly. “Go on. Read it.” 

“O beans!” retorted the disconcerted newspaper man. 
“Read it yourself. I left my smelling salts at home.” 

He dropped the letter into Charley’s hand. Charley 
quietly slipped it in his pocket and looked politely at his 
visitors as if he were waiting for them to make further 
conversation. 

“Deuce take you !” shouted Mr. Ball. “I’d as soon try 
to get a rise out of a dead snail. Come on, Teet, let’s 
go down and roll the ivories around. I’m tired of sit- 
ting up with these remains.” 

Charley grinned at them as they went out. 

“Sorry,” he remarked. “Dull without you.” 

He looked at Mr. Drew as he said it, amiably ex- 
pectant and tolerant. The lawyer returned the gaze 
with a humorous scowl. 

“Why, damme, sir,” he snorted, “you’re trying to 
freeze me too! Where did you learn the trick? It’s 
something new with you.” 

Charley stared at him the harder. 

“Got me guessing. Don’t catch on.” 

“Umph!” grunted the portly advocate. “You don’t 
say! Well, it works all right— your ice plant. I’m 
going!” 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


He rose, peering around for his hat ; and his vest but- 
tons were gently undulating with suppressed merriment. 

“Sorry,” began Charley 

“You say false, you jackanapes!” roared the other, 
wheeling on him. “You’re not sorry. You want to be 
alone to read that note. I know what your trouble is; 
I was young once myself. And Lord, Lord, what a 
devil of a fellow I was with the girls !” 

He cocked his hat on his head and tried to look the 
part as he remembered it, casting back along the rather 
too numerous years. 

“I’m going,” he repeated. “I’ll be with you to-mor- 
row, if I can. And by the way, my boy — er — ah — this 
Miss Grant. Eh? You know there is more than one 
road to riches.” 

“What’s the other?” asked Charley, his hazel eyes 
twinkling. “With Uncle Bill’s two millions ” 

“You haven’t got that yet,” cut in the lawyer irri- 
tably. “I’ve explained about it till I’m tired. You’ve 
a million of your own to earn first, and you’re a long 
way this side of it. But a marriage might help you 
on a bit. Eh?” 

Charley offered no comment and Mr. Drew proceeded, 
assuming an oracular air: 

“Matrimony, my son, considered as an institution, is 
essential to human progress. It is the bulwark of civi- 
lization. The home is the center from which radiates 
— er — ah — confound you, sir, for an impudent puppy! 
What are you grinning at? Because I never married 
and was a fool for it is no reason why you who are a 
fool shouldn’t marry for it. Good-night and be hanged 
to you !” 

He blustered out of the room. Charley, alone now, 
took the note from his pocket. It was thin to emacia- 


A CASE OF GIRL 


261 


tion — just her card, probably, with a word of thanks. 
He studied the handwriting of the address, wishing he 
was an expert at it like J. A. Barlow. He could tell 
then if she really was a flirt. 

There was an ivory paper-knife on the table and with 
this he severed the envelope. It was as he had sur- 
mised; she had sent him her card. He drew it out and 
read her name — Dorothy Maud Grant. He turned it 
over and a light sprang into his eyes — they glowed! 
There were but eleven written words, yet they held 
him spellbound. He read them over and over. He was 
minutes at it. They opened vistas new and dazzling to 
him. 

He got up finally and went into his bedroom and 
locked the door. He wished to see no one in mortal 
guise again that night. You who walk with youth un- 
sullied, and can look upon a maid as one who has 
stepped down from a star, you may know what Charley 
felt — you only! And yet Dorothy had written — and in 
a hand that was a geometrical riddle — merely this: 

How kind of you! We shall be at home Friday 
night 


k 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE FACTORY ON THE MARSH 

If you noted no coincidences in the previous chapter it 
will be useless to call your attention to those in this. 
They are here, though. 

At eight o’clock on Thursday morning Charley was 
called to the telephone from the breakfast table. It was 
Mr. J. A. Barlow. He desired to shift the hour for the 
start to the factory from eleven to nine; matters had 
come up which would require his presence in town at 
twelve. Charley agreed to this. He and Mr. Teeters 
hurried through their meal and took the subway to 
Fulton Street, the stop nearest the Olympic Building. 
They had no time to call up Mr. Drew at his bachelor 
apartments and inform him of the change in plans ; and, 
to be exact, they did not think of it until they were 
on their way. 

At half after eight Mr. George Francis Grant was 
telephoned from his office that a cablegram he was 
expecting from London had arrived. It necessitated an 
immediate conference with his attorney who, as it 
chanced, was William Barlow, Esq., familiarly known 
to Mr. Drew as "Bill.” 

Mr. Grant was an early riser and, mirabile dictu, so 
was his only child and daughter, Dorothy. Mr. Grant 
ordered out his car forthwith and speeded cityward, as 
we good Anglomaniacs now speak of everything below 
262 


THE FACTORY ON THE MARSH 263 


Astor Place. It was a bright and balmy day — Feb- 
ruary in New York flirts with all the seasons — and Doro- 
thy went along with her father to take the morning air. 

At a little after nine o’clock Mr. Drew, journeying by 
tube to his office in Pine Street, got to thinking of the 
Marvel Machine Company and was seized with an un- 
accountable desire to question Bill Barlow about it 
without delay. Barlow’s office was in Nassau Street, 
between John and Maiden Lane, and Mr. Drew alighted 
at the Fulton Street station at nine-thirty, just forty 
minutes after Charley and Mr. Teeters had climbed the 
stairs. 

At ten minutes of ten Mr. Teddy Ball, sitting at his 
desk in the Scream office in William Street, found a 
subconscious thought, which had persisted with him since 
the night before, taking percipiency in his mind. In 
obedience to it he put on his hat and went down the 
street a couple of blocks to the Olympic Building. He 
wanted to see if the J. A. Barlow Charley knew was 
the man he had interviewed a year ago. 

Thus it fell out that at the precise moment Mr. Ball 
was putting on his hat in William Street, Mr. Grant’s 
limousine was drawing up to the walk in Nassau Street 
as Mr. Drew and Mr. William Barlow came rushing 
forth from the latter’s office. And thus it was that, a 
little later, Mr. Grant’s machine, racing around from 
Nassau Street into William, with the four inside talk- 
ing earnestly, pulled up at the Olympic Building just 
as Mr. Ball approached the door. 

If, confiding reader, you cannot recognize coincidence 
in this we apologetically doubt if you would know it 
should you meet it in the big road calling to you with a 
megaphone. And if you don’t believe all this could have 
happened as pat and pertinent as we have set it down, 


264 * 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


the gifted story-tellers of the day have writ in vain. 

Now let us jump to Jersey and see what, at the same 
hour, was going on over there. 

On either side of the Newark road are factories of 
one kind and another scattered about on the marshes. 
On this road sped a high-powered limousine. It turned 
off toward one of the factories some two miles out 
from Jersey City. In the limousine were Charley, Mr. 
Teeters and Mr. J. A. Barlow. It was an inside drive, 
and Barlow was at the wheel. 

The factory stood perhaps a thousand feet from the 
pike, end to — a long, squat brick structure, the paint 
scaling from the walls, and the marsh grass growing 
high around it. No other buildings were close by. The 
office was in the front end. There were heavy shut- 
ters to the windows, which were grated. 

Beyond the office was a truck door, rolled back part 
way. Framed in this opening was a man in overalls. 
He disappeared into the building as the automobile ap- 
proached. Simultaneously another man peered out from 
the office door and in the same breath retreated ; it was 
like a turtle popping its head out of its shell and in 
again. 

Charley viewed this dispiriting scene stolidly, but Mr. 
Teeters spoke his feelings. 

“Is this the place? Gorry gosh! Go easy, James, 
or we may wake somebody up.” 

“They have shut down for repairs,” explained Mr. 
Barlow. “Blew out a cylinder-head this morning. 
Bowles phoned me about it after I’d talked with you. 
Bowles is our superintendent.” 

He guided the car up to a brace of rickety wooden 
steps. Charley noticed a small sign tacked to the bricks. 
It bore the company's name. His eyes narrowed as he 


THE FACTORY ON THE MARSH 265 


surveyed it. It was dusty, but it was not dingy; and 
there was no dust on the marsh. Still 

The man in the overalls came out to meet them. He 
said : 

“Mr. Bowles would like to see you in the office first, 
Mr. Barlow. He’s got something to show you.” 

“All right,” consented Mr. Barlow. “Turn this car 
around, Jim. Walk in, gentlemen. We’ll go through 
the factory after we see Bowles.” 

Charley and Mr. Teeters stepped in through the door. 
Mr. Barlow stepped in at their heels and closed the 
door. Instantly there was a sound as of a bolt being 
shot into place; but, oddly enough, it came from the 
outside. At the sound a man — Mr. Bowles, presumably 
— standing at the far end of the room, slewed around. 
Synchronously the noise of another bolt shooting home 
was heard. It came from the door which led into the 
factory proper. 

They were trapped, Charley and Mr. Teeters, as pret- 
tily as a pair of pigeons! 

Mr. Teeters, of the sickly color of a chilled Camem- 
bert cheese, gazed affrightedly about him; but Charley 
grinned at the man who had turned to meet them. It 
was the flashily dressed individual, now soberly attired, 
he had encountered Monday night after the theater. 

“Where’s the lady ?” asked Mr. Carter evenly. “Party 
not complete.” 

His grin, which endured, was not, however, a pleas- 
ant thing to contemplate at that moment, and Mr. 
Bowles, who was a prudent sort of person, it seemed, 
rather hastily displayed a nasty looking automatic. 

“Don’t get gay!” he retorted with a scowl. “We’ve 
got business with you, and it isn’t funny!” 


266 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“And I’m pressed for time,” snapped Mr. Barlow. 
“Sit down at that desk!” 

He also had produced a disagreeable looking little 
gun, and it was pointed most offensively at the pit of 
Charley’s stomach. 

“Come-On!” groaned Mr. Teeters. 

“Say — you!” hissed Mr. Bowles viciously. “Take 
that chair in the corner. If you breathe loud I’ll put a 
hole in your gizzard.” 

There was something so peculiarly sanguinary in the 
threat that Mr. Teeters hurriedly took the chair indi- 
cated and tried not to breathe at all. Mr. Barlow iterated 
his command to Charley. 

“Sit at that desk! I’ll be out of this in five minutes, 
but I’ve a word to say to you first. This time, Mr. 
Come-On Charley, you’re the one who is going to come 
across. You’ve put it over on the boys up to now, but 
I’m going to wipe the slate clean. You wouldn’t bite 
yesterday, though we fixed that plant up just for you — 
you only, understand — company name, office, bank ac- 
count — the whole bag of tricks. Only the telephone was 
in my own name, which isn’t Barlow. You wouldn’t 
bite ; now, by God, I am going to bite ! Sit down !” 

Charley obeyed. Resistance would be suicide; Bar- 
low was as plainly in earnest as a copperhead snake 
coiled to strike. But Charley’s wits were all alive. A 
girl’s smile might scatter them, but not a man’s threat. 
Charley was of a breed whose blood ran all red. 

“What’s the game?” he inquired coolly. 

Barlow laid before him a blank check. It was from 
Charley’s bank. Pen and ink were on the desk. 

“Draw it to ‘Cash’ for two hundred and fifty thou- 
sand dollars,” commanded the con man. “I’d make it 
more if I thought I could put it through, but I won’t 


THE FACTORY ON THE MARSH 267 


chance it.” He chuckled savagely. “You’d have got off 
for a hundred and forty thousand yesterday if you 
hadn’t been such a wise guy.” 

“Sorry,” said Charley. “You’re hitting me hard.” 

He dipped the pen in the ink and started to write. 
Barlow watched him narrowly. 

“Play it straight,” he cautioned. “I have your sig- 
nature in full. You can’t fool me!” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Got me dead. Know when 
I’m licked.” 

He signed the check and Barlow compared it with 
the name on the slip of paper Miss Harding had brought 
in to him the day before. He grunted his satisfac- 
tion, and walked to the door and called through it. 

“All right, Jim. Close up.” 

Jim began noiselessly closing the shutters to the win- 
dows, and these, too, he bolted from the outside. It 
liad all been planned in advance, even to the carefully 
dust-powdered new tin sign. 

Bowles followed Barlow to the door. Both kept Char- 
ley and Mr. Teeters covered with their guns. There 
were three windows to the office, one in each of the outer 
walls. Jim closed the shutters at the back and at the 
end. Then he waited. 

Barlow gave another ugly chuckle. 

“You stumped me for a minute yesterday,” he con- 
fessed to Charley. “Then I thought of this old shack 
— I’d marked it down for another job — and got busy 
with it.” 

“Great idea. Worked fine.” 

Charley applauded the rascally maneuver almost with 
enthusiasm. One would have thought he had not been 
touched by it were it not for the evidence of the check 


268 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


which the other was in the act of placing in his pocket- 
book. Barlow grunted and replied: 

‘Til be at your bank in an hour. That will be half- 
past eleven. At twelve I’ll telephone the Jersey City 
police. If they're feeling particularly spry they’ll prob- 
ably get around to let you out before you starve to 
death.” 

* 

Mr. Teeters whimpered, and Mr. Bowles spat upon 
the floor in witness of the disgust this pusillanimous be- 
havior inspired in him. 

“I guess that’s all,” Barlow finished. “You’ve shook 
a lot of us down, you infernal young rube, but to-day 
we’ll declare a dividend on you. You’ve run your rig. 
If you’re a sport you’ll can your squeal. If you’re 
not, holler till hell freezes over — it’s all the same to me.” 

He tapped twice on the door. The bolt was drawn 
and they backed out of the room. The door was fas- 
tened promptly, and the remaining shutters were closed. 
Charley and Mr. Teeters heard the exhaust of the car 
as it started off, and then all was quiet. It was black 
as a tar-baby in the stuffy little coop. 

“Come-On !” wailed Mr. Teeters from out of the dark- 
ness. “They fooled us this time, sure enough. Con 
men ! Gollamighty ! And they cut a hole in your squash 
you could drive a cow through! Gollamighty! Goll- 
amighty !” 

A curious sound came from Charley. 

“What’s the matter, Come-On?” queried Mr. Teeters 
tremulously. “You ain’t — oh, gosh — you ain’t crying?” 

Charley did not answer. He struck a match to light 
a cigar he had discovered in his pocket and Mr. Teeters, 
as he glimpsed him, gasped. 

Charley was laughing. 

It was considerably more than an hour later when they 


THE FACTORY ON THE MARSH 260 


heard a car drive up and the noise of excited voices talk- 
ing all at once. 

“Are you there, Charley, my boy ?” It was Mr. 
Drew calling anxiously. 

“Sure,” called Charley back to him. “Come in. 
Haven’t gone to bed yet.” 

The bolt was drawn and the door thrust open. Mr. 
Drew stumbled in. Mr. Grant and Teddy Ball fol- 
lowed, leading between them Miss Jane Harding. Her 
head was up defiantly and her eyes were hard and 
venomous. Charley stared, not at Mr. Ball nor at his 
captive. It was the sporting millionaire who held his 
gaze. What ? — how ? — where ? 

And then Dorothy entered. Charley looked at her 
and was stricken dumb. She was wearing his violets 
and her face, despite the smile she forced to her lips, 
showed real concern. 

“Well, Mr. Carter, we meet again,” said Mr. Grant, 
eyeing him keenly. “How have you made out?” 

Charley being tongue-tied, Mr. Teeters raised a hue 
and cry. 

“Merry Moses!” he squealed. “Made out? Like the 
guy who had a house fall on him. There was a gang 
of ’em here that’d slit your pipes for a paper of pins. 
And they made Come-On shuck a quarter of a million 
off his roll!” 

Mr. Drew staggered. 

“Good Lord !” he groaned. “What did you give them 
— a check?” 

Charley nodded. 

“O mommer !” yelled Mr. Ball. “Let’s get to a tele- 
phone quick and stop it!” 

He made a dive for the door. Charley found his 
tongue. “No use,” he said. 


270 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Miss Harding laughed ironically. 

“You thought/’ she scoffed at Mr. Ball, “when you 
caught me leaving the office and I fainted it was real. 
You thought your threats frightened me, but I was only 
playing for time. And then I brought you here around 
by Hoboken!” She laughed again. “It’s the joke of 
the year!” 

“It’s a peach for the Scream !” exulted Teddy Ball. 

Dorothy regarded Charley in a way that made his 
hair tingle at the roots; but she said nothing. 

“We’ve got one of the crowd, anyway,” spoke up 
Mr. Drew sternly. “We’ll see what she has to say 
when they talk with her at the Central Office.” 

Charley grinned at him and shook his head. 

“Girl. Don’t fight that kind. Sorry for her. And 
she said it — it’s a joke.” 

Dorothy’s eyes kindled, but her father, mystified, 
echoed the word: 

“A joke? I fear I’m a little dense, young man. The 
scoundrel has cashed in by this.” 

“Yes, by Jove!” exclaimed Teddy Ball. “If you call 
it a joke to draw a check •” 

“Didn’t sign it right,” interposed Charley. “All luck, 
though. Signed it, by request, Charles Arthur Carter. 
Wanted to oblige. Bank signature is Charles A. Carter.” 

His grin now was infectious ; everybody grinned — 
everybody except Miss Jane Harding. She gave him 
a look that ought to have killed. But Dorothy — not- 
withstanding Charley’s disclaimer of merit for himself 
— clapped her hands impulsively and cried out : 

“Oh, you clever, clever boy!” 

And this, for obvious reasons, is one Come-On story 
which doesn’t end — in spoken words at least — with 

“ ‘Sure,’ said Charley.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


MERCIFUL SKEETERS MEETS A MAN 

Mr. Percival Teeters had found a new friend, and he 
was sorely in need of company. Since the business on 
the Jersey marshes in which Mr. Charley Carter by a 
simple expedient turned the laugh on the confidence 
fraternity and thwarted a raid on his bank balance, Mr. 
Teeters had been much alone. Miss Dorothy Grant was 
the cause of it. She was the candle to which Charley 
played the moth. He fluttered about it to the imminent 
danger of his wings and to Mr. Teeters’s loss of his so- 
ciety at least three nights in the week. 

Hence, when Mr. Simeon Huncks crossed Mr. Teeters’s 
path and evinced an interest in him, the lank and lone- 
some private secretary fell upon that welcome gentle- 
man’s neck and clasped him to his heart. This, the 
astute reader will of course understand, is a mere figure 
of speech. In actual fact, had Mr. Teeters attempted 
to drape himself about Mr. Huncks’s rather red and 
beefy neck his countenance very likely would have been 
pushed through his back hair into whatever happened to 
be beyond. For Mr. Huncks was an unsentimental sort 
of person, approaching middle age, a little short, a trifle 
stout and with a hawk nose and eye to match. 

He met Mr. Teeters as ten hundred thousand men 
have met before — he asked him for a match. It was 
in the Hotel Rirebien rotunda. The time was the sec- 
271 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


<ra 

ond Sunday in Lent, shortly after six o’clock at night. 
Charley was at the Grants’. Mr. Teeters was moping 
in a corner by himself, smoking a cigarette and won- 
dering what he should have for his solitary dinner, when 
Mr. Huncks dropped down beside him. Mr. Teeters 
produced the requested match, Mr. Huncks returned his 
thanks, and this exchange of courtesies led to conver- 
sation. It was adroitly fostered by the sociable stranger 
and in ten minutes he was possessed of Mr. Teeters’s 
history, and Charley’s, from the cradle to their present 
point of progress toward the grave. 

“I thought your face was familiar, but I couldn’t 
place you at first,” said Mr. Huncks. “I’ve seen your 
picture in the papers, and Mr. Carter’s. You boys 
certainly have made a noise here in the Little Old Vil- 
lage.” 

“I guess they’ve heard us when we moved about,” 
admitted Mr. Teeters modestly. 

“I guess so,” laughed the other. “There are folks in 
this town who think they’re pretty smart, but they can 
go to school to you and learn a trick or two. Eh?” 

Mr. Teeters winked at him. 

“We got a bagful we haven’t showed ’em yet. Wait 
till they come around again and ask us to perform.” 

“I’d like to see the fun,” chuckled Mr. Huncks. He 
glanced at the clock over the desk. “Six-forty! What 
do you say to a bite of something — with bubbles on the 
side? I’m loose. Wife left for ’Frisco this morning.” 

Mr. Teeters hesitated. Was this an invitation or 
double checks ? Champagne at another’s cost was a thing 
his soul rejoiced in; but at his own expense it was a 
harmful and pernicious drink. Mr. Huncks seemed to 
sense his companion’s state of mind. 

“I’m buying,” he announced. “When I meet a man 


MERCIFUL SKEETERS MEETS A MAN 273 


like you — both eyes open — it’s a pleasure to entertain 
him. You’re not dated up, I hope?” 

“I ain’t got a thing to do but eat your dog,” re- 
sponded Mr. Teeters facetiously. “Charley’s doing goo- 
goos with a fairy up the Avenue, and I’m down here 
as merry as a mouse in a trap. Where are we going 
to swallow the knife — in here?” 

“I was thinking of Paul’s,” said Mr. Huncks, “but 
you have to reserve a table there in advance. It’s 
always crowded ; and Lent don’t cut any figure with it.” 

“Paul’s? Where’s that?” queried Mr. Teeters. 

Mr. Huncks looked at him astonished. 

“You don’t know Paul’s? Down by Thirty-eighth 
Street? Where’ve you been eating all this time?” 

“Here mostly,” replied Mr. Teeters, feeling a little 
ashamed of himself. “And at Chatty’s and Mouchard’s.” 

“Oh, those joints!” Mr. Huncks grunted contemptu- 
ously. “I’ll take you to a real restaurant some night 
this week, you and Mr. Carter. We’ll fix up a date. 
Huh, Chatty’s! Say, down at Paul’s they’re so busy 
every night the cashier don’t have time to stack the 
money. Throws it on the floor till after hours and 
counts it by machinery. I ought to know.” 

“Hey? How’s that?” asked Mr. Teeters. 

“I’m financially interested in the place, that’s how,” 
Mr. Huncks informed him. “And I’m in the hardest 
kind of luck, blast it. Got to sell. The madam is nuts 
on the Coast, and we are going over there to live. I’m 
simply staying here till I can close out a few things I’m 
into. Paul’s is one of them. Between you and me. I’m 
carrying on the business. But come on in to dinner 
and I’ll tell you about it. Maybe they’ve got a duck in 
there we can eat without an ax ; and they can’t fool me 
on the wine. I was born with a cork in my mouth.” 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


274 

“Ha! You ain’t pushing me,” bragged Mr. Teeters. 
“I got a Pink Seal birthmark on my left shoulder 
blade.” 

They went in to dinner. When they came out, two 
hours later, Mr. Teeters, just to show that money, when 
you knew how, could be swept up from the floor like 
bread crumbs, tossed a lordly quarter to a bellboy who 
had not done a thing for him but get out of the way. 

Mr. Carter came home with a rose in his coat and 
a light in his eyes that spoke of a rapturous evening. 
Mr. Teeters was waiting up for him. He was sprawled 
out on the couch in the sitting-room smoking a black 
cigar to keep him awake. It was striking twelve as 
Charley entered. 

“Listen!” cried Mr. Teeters, sitting up. 

Charley paused inquiringly. 

“Wedding bells !” cackled Mr. Teeters. “Me and Lit- 
tle Eva’s going to jump through the ring. We are 
going to play house in popper’s back yard.” 

Charley grinned. His secretary’s pleasantry, crude 
though it was, did not jar on him. It was in tune with 
his fancy. But he said, with elaborate unconcern: 

“Thought you’d be in bed, Skeeters. What’s doing?” 

Mr. Teeters arose from the couch and crossed over 
to his chief. 

“I got a hen on for you, Come-On. A nestful of 
eggs. It’s for to-morrow night — I mean to-night; it’s 
morning now. Don’t you tell me you got another goo- 
goo date. This is biz — a chance to make your million.” 

“Go ahead,” Charley bade him. 

He took off his topcoat, first carefully removing the 
rose, and sat down. Mr. Teeters perched himself on 
the table and swung his long legs to and fro as he 


MERCIFUL SKEETERS MEETS A MAN 275 


talked. He related his chance encounter with Mr. Simeon 
Huncks, detailed with gusto the items of the twenty- 
dollar dinner that liberal gentleman had “blown” him 
to, and told of his connection with Paul’s, with which 
place Mr. Teeters professed an intimate acquaintance. 
The truth was, Mr. Huncks had so expatiated on its 
city-wide reputation that Mr. Teeters, who abhorred a 
show of ignorance, had argued himself into the belief 
that he had known of it all along and, indeed, had dined 
there once when he was a trifle hazy in his upper works. 
Hence his faulty memory. 

“He’s got to sell quick,” concluded the secretary, “and 
he ain’t going to count the beans too close. His wife’s 
got a bee on ’Frisco, and she’s shooting over there right 
now on the choo-choo. She’s a bear, Huncks says, 
and the way I size it is he’s afraid she’ll leave him in 
the discard if he don’t chase her up. By gum, catch me 
getting hooked up to any skirt! Double trouble — that’s 
the dish they hand you !” 

Charley merely smiled. He pitied the untutored wretch 
before him. How could he know that with some people 
marriage meant the end of trouble — the beginning of the 
rainbow route to Eden? 

“Go on,” he said forbearingly. “What about the 
eggs ?” 

“Ha!” ejaculated Mr. Teeters. “What about ’em? 
Why, they’re ready to hatch, that’s what! All you got 
to do is buy the place and clean up ten thousand a 
week clear profit. Huncks is doing it ; he said so. And 
if it wasn’t for his wife he wouldn’t think of selling.” 

“Too bad,” observed Mr. Carter quizzically. 

Mr. Teeters hopped down from the table. His mus- 
tache wiggled, and his china-blue eyes glistened. He was 
plainly moved. 


276 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“You think it’s another con game, but it ain’t,” he 
asseverated. “Gollamighty, Come-On, it’s a restaurant! 
It’s there! You can see it — put your hand on it — eat 
it! It’s Paul’s! Everybody knows Paul’s. You got 
to tag your table in advance or eat off the floor. Say, 
Charley, they make money down there so fast they have 
to count it by machinery. Huncks said so. And he’s 
straight. Ding it all, don’t I know a con man when I 
see him? He ain’t got any of the signs about him, this 
guy Huncks. And he hasn’t even mentioned selling you 
the shop. He’s got a party for it barking at the door 
right now!” 

“Oh,” said Charley. “Then what’s the excitement 
all about, Percy?” 

“Pink Pills !” exclaimed the secretary, losing patience. 
“You got to beat the other boob to it and sneak his 
spoon away. To-night! Huncks has given us an in- 
vite to eat a few with him at Paul’s. He wants to meet 
you before he goes out West. He’s just a good fellow, 
that’s all. Me and him hit it off like a pair of pouter 
pigeons.” 

“What does he want for the place?” Charley asked. 
Mr. Teeters’s earnestness impressed him. 

“A hundred thousand. And cheap as dirt, Huncks 
says. Earning ten per cent, on the money every week, 
right along! A week, understand?” 

Charley failing to respond, Mr. Teeters became more 
urgent. 

“Ten thousand a week! Do you get it? In a year 
you’d have half a million. Straight money, too. A 
regular business. Merry Moses, Come-On, that wren — 
I mean,” he hastily amended at Charley’s quick frown, 
“the girl up on the Avenue would be proud of you.” 
This was a sly afterthought, and it told. 


MERCIFUL SKEETERS MEETS A MAN £77 


“Oh, all right/’ said Charley, rising and affecting a 
yawn. “I’ll go. Nothing better to do.” And he went 
off to bed, taking his rose with him. 

In the evening of that same day Mr. Huncks called 
for his guests at the Rirebien. He shook hands with 
Charley warmly. 

“Heard a lot about you, Mr. Carter. Always pleased 
to meet a thoroughbred.” 

“Same to you,” said Charley. 

“We’ll walk, if you don’t mind,” suggested Mr. 
Huncks. “I want to look in at Chatty’s and Mouchard’s. 
I’ll show you something.” 

Mouchard’s was the first stop. Mr. Huncks led the 
way in. He brushed aside the cloakroom harpies and 
strode to the entrance of the main dining-room. 

“What d’ye think of it?” he inquired behind his hand 
of the two. “Looks like somebody’s funeral. Ain’t 
enough people to pay the cook. No use going upstairs. 
You’d find the waiters playing solitaire. Come on.” 

They went out and on to Chatty’s. Here they found 
another array of empty tables. Lent was taking its 
toll. Mr. Teeters counted the people. 

“Fifty-two,” he announced. 

“One for every week in the year,” jeered Mr. Huncks. 
“Big business! Come along. Let’s go hunt a noise.” 

They struck off down the street for Paul’s. 

“Hard luck you have to sell,” Charley said compas- 
sionately. 

“Ain’t it?” Mr. Huncks wagged his head mournfully. 
“I suppose our friend here has told you why. I expect 
a party around to-night to close a deal with me. If 
Paul was here I wouldn’t sell. I’d let him run it and 
take my profits. He built up the place, you know, and 
I backed him. But the war called Paul home to the 


278 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


colors — French reservist — and I had to carry on the 
business myself. Easy work, and I hate to quit, but the 
missus — you know how it is, or you would if you was 
married. Eve simply got to give the place away and 
skate across to ’Frisco to please the girl.” 

This sentiment appealed to Charley. He glanced at the 
rotund Mr. Huncks admiringly, and said: 

“Good old sport! Wish you luck.” 

“Look at that !” called out Mr. Huncks abruptly. “See 
’em come. Wait a minute. Watch ’em!” 

He stopped his friends directly under a blazing elec- 
tric sign, and pointed over the way. It was Paul’s. A 
short flight of broad steps led to the lobby of the res- 
taurant and people were passing up them in twos and 
threes, with occasionally a larger group. 

“Seven o’clock,” said Mr. Huncks. “In half an hour 
you couldn’t push a pin in there without sticking some- 
body.” 

As they watched a hatless man — very bald — in a din- 
ner-coat came out and stood on the topmost step. He 
peered around him and then across the street. Mr. 
Huncks took off his derby to mop his forehead — he 
was warm from his walk — and remarked : 

“I got thirty thousand dollars’ worth of wine in the 
cellars over there, boys, from sherry to champagne. 
Some drink ! What ? Let’s go over and sample it.” 

He replaced his hat and pioneered the way to the other 
side. The bald-headed man was gone when they mounted 
the steps. The head waiter conducted them to a table 
in a corner; it was removed some distance from the 
others, and there was an air of privacy about it. Mr. 
Teeters was jubilant; wine was presently to flow. 

“Say, Come-On,” he whispered. “Rotten, ain’t it, I 
don’t think!” 


’MERCIFUL SKEETERS MEETS A MAN 279 


Mr. Huncks spoke to the head waiter. 

“Same old business, Peter. Packing ’em in!” 

“Only fairish, sir,” returned Peter with a shrug. 
“Monday, sir; always a little slow on Mondays.” 

“Pretty good, Peter, just the same,” opined the pro- 
prietor of Paul’s. “Who is going to wait on us?” 

Peter motioned to a man hunched into a deprecating 
bow who was standing near. 

“Tony, sir. Shall he bring the cocktails?” 

Mr. Huncks nodded and turned to Charley. 

“I’ve got an A i steward, my boy. Name is Frascati 
— Italian. I told him to get us up a dinner we’d re- 
member. If it don’t hit you right, squeal. But I bet 
you won’t.” 

“You’re the doctor,” Charley answered, grinning. 
“Own medicine. We can take it if you can.” 

“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Teeters. “I guess yes. He 
knows a duck from a didapper.” 

“How does it strike you?” asked Mr. Huncks com- 
placently of Charley, who was looking about him. “Not 
so bad, eh?” 

“Great!” commented Charley. 

It was a tremendous room, gaudy with gilt and flar- 
ing frescos. At one end a piano, flute and violin were 
working stoically through a popular song. Nearly all 
the tables were filled, and newcomers were constantly 
arriving. The hum of voices rose high above the music. 

“Makes you think of Chatty’s,” tittered Mr. Teeters. 

“Seventy-five tables. We can seat three hundred,” 
Mr. Huncks told them. “Every table worth forty dollars 
a day. That’s three thousand ” he paused impres- 

sively — “and half of it is clear profit.” 

“Gee,” said Charley. “Going some!” 

The cocktails were before them, and he sipped his 


280 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


glass thoughtfully. Mr. Teeters drained his at a gulp. 

“If I owned this place I’d sleep in it every night 
for fear it would get away from me,” he declared. 

“Don’t!” Mr. Huncks begged him plaintively. “I 
want to forget it.” 

“What’s the trouble over there?” Charley was watch- 
ing the door. “Somebody cutting up?” 

Mr. Huncks laughed comfortably. 

“Oh, that’s an every-night affair. Turning ’em away. 
Late comers. No more tables. I have to reserve my 
own twenty-four hours ahead or go without. How do 
you find the soup?” 

It was a rather neat little dinner Mr. Huncks served 
his friends. And from soup to nuts wine flowed with 
every course — sherry, chablis, claret, champagne, port 
and brandy. Never in his life had Mr. Teeters run the 
gamut of the wine card at one sitting like this. And 
neither had Charley. Ordinarily abstemious as a Quaker 
parson, this night the bridle slipped his hold. 

Mr. Huncks was so jovially insistent, so pleasantly 
pressing with the bottle that Charley could not find 
it in him to resist. As a consequence, when they came 
to the cigars he looked upon the world and all therein 
contained with a benignant eye, and his host, especially, 
he regarded as a friend and brother. Mr. Teeters freely 
admitted his condition; he exulted in it. 

“I’m all lit up like the Boston boat,” he proclaimed, 
casting a moist eye around him. “Stand me up on a 
table, Huncksy, and save the gas.” 

Mr. Carter waved a hand at his secretary and grinned 
amiably at his host. 

“Merciful Skeeters. Real name. Wise. Keeps his 
fingers crossed. Toes too.” 

Mr. Huncks was about to reply in kind to this wag- 


MERCIFUL SKEETERS MEETS A MAN 281 


gery when he caught sight of two men who had just 
entered. He frowned and said: 

“The devil! Here comes Wiggins.” 

“Wiggins?” questioned Mr. Teeters. 

“The man who's going to buy me out. And he's got 
his lawyer with him. I told him ten o’clock. He can't 
wait, I guess. Say, you boys don't mind if we fix 
the business up right here, do you? It won’t take 
long — just a paper to sign and get Wiggins's check. 
They’ve been through the inventory — wines, stores, linen 
and all that. Everything O. K. We won't be five min- 
utes. Sit tight and smoke. It is the edge of the even- 
ing yet.” 

But Mr. Teeters would not sit tight. 

“Keep ’em away! Shoo 'em off! We got a speech 
to make,” he yapped. 

“What do you mean?” Mr. Huncks stared at him 
blankly. 

“Come-On, you ain’t going to let this get away from 
you, are you?” demanded Mr. Teeters feverishly. 
“Creeping Cats, it’s a cinch! Ten thousand a week!” 

Mr. Carter bestowed a tolerant smile on his secretary. 
He was willing to make allowances for him in his then 
condition. He would remind him of a fact he had over- 
looked. 

“Too late, Skeeters. Higgins — Biggins — what’s his 
name — Giggins? He's got the call.” 

Mr. Huncks leaned over and spoke earnestly. 

“I'd rather sell to you, old man, than to Wiggins. 
You’re a friend — gentleman — thoroughbred. If you 
want to buy maybe I can fix it. Quick ! They’re here !” 

“Ten thousand — oh, gosh! Come-Qn!” implored Mr. 
Teeters in a hoarse whisper. 


282 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Charley made a large gesture of acquiescence. He 
felt that way. 

“Fix it,” he said. 

Mr. Huncks arose and met Mr. Wiggins. The gen- 
tleman was in a dinner-coat, and he was deplorably un- 
feathered up above. A dim notion crossed Charley’s 
mind that he had seen Mr. Wiggins before somewhere, 
but he could not place him and did not try; a pleasant 
lassitude was upon him, and exertion was a trouble. 

Mr. Huncks drew the two aside, and they conversed 
vehemently for a few moments. Mr. Wiggins gesticu- 
lated angrily, and at length, shaking a threatening finger 
under Mr. Huncks’s nose, he turned and marched away. 
Whereupon Mr. Huncks brought the other man over 
to the table and introduced him. 

“Mr. Carter, Mr. Teeters — Mr. Elliott Jones. A law- 
yer. He’ll fix our little matter up in a jiffy. The papers 
are all drawn. Only has to substitute your name, Char- 
ley. And I’ll tell you — to show how far I’ll go for a 
friend — it cost me five thousand to buy Wiggins off. 
He’s so mad his clothes don’t fit him. Tony, bring us a 
bottle. Pink Seal, and shoot it along.” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


THE DAY AFTER 

Mr. Carter and his secretary breakfasted in their 
rooms the next day. It was ten o’clock. The sun was 
streaming cheerily in through the windows, but they 
viewed it with a languid eye. They were not feeling 
very well. In fact, they were heartily ashamed of them- 
selves, for neither had the slightest recollection of how 
they had reached their beds. That last bottle — the one 
Charley ordered when the keys to Paul’s were formally 
transferred to him — had sealed memory in its chamber 
at that particular stage of the proceedings. What fol- 
lowed was a blank. ^ 

Charley on arising had taken Dorothy’s rose from the 
glass on his dresser and put it out of sight. He wrapped 
it in tissue paper and laid it in a drawer to wither fra- 
grantly away. He could not bear to look at it. It 
seemed to him just then he could never face Dorothy 
again. And he had an engagement to dine at her house 
that night! 

Mr. Teeters had no such mournful thoughts to harass 
him. He was concerned wholly with the state of his 
head. It felt as if it did not belong to him, as if he 
had exchanged it for somebody else’s, as he might his 
hat. He set down his coffee with a petulant expression. 

“It’s boiled mud! Gollwoppit, I feel’s if I’d tried to 
push the elevator up with my bean!” 

283 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Charley went on with his egg in silence. Mr. Tee- 
ters went on, solo pitch: 

“We was stewed good and proper last night, Come-On. 
I’m bubbling yet. But you pulled off the trick. Ten 
thousand a week. Clear profit. I wonder what old Drew 
will say when he hears it? And Joe and Teddy? Say, 
we’ll have ’em around at Paul’s to dinner and show 
’em where the lobsters live in Little Old New York. 
Hey?” 

The telephone rang sharply. Mr. Teeters jumped and 
put his hands to his head. 

“Helafire!” he whined. “That girl is too almighty 
sudden. I thought somebody’d hit me!” 

He got up sluggishly and answered the call. 

“Come-On,” he announced, “a guy named Catty — or 
something like that — has blown in downstairs. He’s 
from Paul’s. Says you told him to come around this 
morning. Want to see him?” 

Charley had no remembrance of the appointment, 
nor of Mr. Catty — or whoever it was — but he was not 
minded to betray himself to his secretary. 

“Sure,” he said sententiously, and bit into his toast. 

The caller was a weedy, sallow person with a little 
black mustache. It was waxed and twisted at the ends 
so tightly that it seemed to lift him up on his toes. He 
carried a leather portfolio, and handled it when he sat 
down as if it were filled with lyddite or some other high 
explosive — and so, shortly, it proved to be in its effect 
on Charley. 

To reduce a painful episode to its elementals, it was 
Mr. Angelo Frascati, the steward at Paul’s, who pre- 
sented himself to the new proprietor. He delicately re- 
minded Mr. Carter — perceiving instantly the need of it 
— that he, Mr. Carter, had been pleased the night before 


THE DAY AFTER 


285 


to retain his, Frascati’s, services. And he furthermore 
recalled to Mr. Carter’s mind that he, Frascati, had in- 
timated there were certain matters of importance it 
would be well for them to take up together without de- 
lay. Hence his, Frascati’s, intrusion at this early hour 
on Mr. Carter’s privacy, and his profound apologies. 

To all this Charley listened stolidly, and then re- 
quested Mr. Frascati to “get busy.” This the gentle- 
man proceeded to do, and with the, most astounding re- 
sults. When he took his departure Mr. Teeters, who had 
contained himself only by the most heroic effort, fell 
over on the couch squealing in dismay. 

“We bought a bubble and it’s busted ! It was a phoney 
bunch of dinner sharks Huncks rang in on us last night 
— a free-for-all. Those ‘at leisure’ Gents and Jennies 
that crowd you off the pave around by Forty-second 
Street.” 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Pretty slick. Got to hand it 
to him.” 

He was grinning. Frascati’s call had cleared his head. 
The humor of the thing appealed to him. He had let 
Huncks get him drunk — for the first time in his life — 
and unload on him a dead business as easily as dumping 
sand from a cart. It was straight, too, up to a point. 
It was a bona fide sale of what Huncks had to sell, 
which wasn’t much — the lease, the chattels and a handful 
of supplies. Elliott Jones was a certified, if shady, law- 
yer — Frascati knew the man — and he remembered now 
they had called in a notary from somewhere; he was 
in waiting, of course. 

Yes, it was a pretty slick game Huncks had played, 
and no doubt he had cashed his hundred-thousand-dollar 
check and was chuckling over it at that minute. He had 
not said a word about the liabilities — the overhead ex- 


286 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


penses, wages and like trifles, and Charley had not 
thought to ask; he forgot such things were. In plain 
terms, he had been an ass who had not even brayed. 

He went to the telephone. Mr. Teeters sat up on 
the couch groaning dismally. 

“What you going to do, Come-On?” 

“Get Mr. Drew. Advice,” said Charley. 

“O Lordy, I can hear him now!” wailed Mr. Teeters. 
“Where’s that paper Catty left? I ain’t sensed it — not 
all of it — yet.” 

While Charley talked with the attorney Mr. Teeters 
drew a chair to the table, stuck his fingers in his ears, 
and studied the memoranda Paul’s steward had left with 
them. Exclusive of the tableware and such things, and 
insurance, which for obvious reasons was paid, the as- 
sets and liabilities Mr. Carter, in his brief hour of ex- 
pansion, had taken on stood thus arrayed: 


LIABILITIES 

Rent — i mo., near due $4,000.00 

Lights — 1 mo., near due 125.00 

Wages — 50 people — arrears 800.00 

Wines, etc. (bills) 2,500.00 

Supplies, etc. (bills) 1,400.00 

Music — arrears 60.00 

Sundries 75.00 

$8,960.00 

ASSETS 

Cash in drawer ......... $6.75 

Wines, etc., on hand 650.00 

Supplies, etc., on hand. 340.00 

Bills receivable 


$996.75 


THE DAY AFTER 


287 


In brief, Mr. Carter had purchased for one hundred 
thousand dollars spot cash debts of nine thousand dol- 
lars, had assumed a three-year lease at forty-eight thou- 
sand dollars a year, and had incurred running expenses 
of approximately two thousand dollars a week. In 
exchange for this he had received a thousand dollars 
in supplies and the furnishings. The “good will” was 
an asset that lay entirely in Mr. Huncks’s imagination, 
and was perceptible only to himself. Altogether, it was 
a tidy stroke of business — for Mr. Huncks. 

As this percolated into Mr. Teeters’s intelligence he 
raised his head and goggled vacuously at the wall. 

“Gollamighty !” he croaked. “Conned to a finish!” 

Charley left Mr. Teeters at home and drove down- 
town to Mr. Drew’s office in Pine Street. His interview 
with the lawyer was not hilarious. Mr. Drew, through 
various telephonic channels, had assured himself of the 
validity of Huncks’s bill of sale, and he now told Charley 
precisely what he thought of him. 

“All I can see in it,” he wound up, “is that you’ve 
paid a fortune for a lot of china and a smile.” 

Charley grinned at him. 

“Got seven hundred and forty thousand left. Man- 
age to rub along. And there’s Uncle William’s two mil- 
lions.” 

“Don’t you count on that,” warned the lawyer. 
“You’ve got to get your own million first.” 

“Not counting on it,” Charley answered soberly, 
though with a look that belied his tone. “Chickens be-' 
fore hatched. Eggs may be no good.” 

Mr. Drew, as he had done on several other occasions, 
let the opportunity for confession pass. Instead he said : 

“Look here, my young friend, you are liable for thirty- 
three months’ rental on that morgue — a hundred and 


288 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


thirty-two thousand dollars! Sell the lease for what it 
will bring; that’s my advice to you.” 

“Will think it over,” returned Charley. “Want you 
to take dinner with me to-night. Paul’s. Teddy Ball’s 
coming. And Joe Link. Already phoned them. My 
treat. Own the grub, anyway. What’s left.” 

He grinned again and went away, leaving the portly 
advocate sputtering in his chair. 

Charley drove around to William Street to see Mr. 
Grant. He had made up his mind to tell him the whole 
story. A man who would allow himself to get drunk 
and play the fool was not entitled to associate with a 
gentleman’s daughter. It would be pursuing the ac- 
quaintance under false pretenses if he did not tell. He 
would ask Mr. Grant to withdraw the dinner invitation 
for the night and explain to Dorothy the reason. 

It was with a very serious air he entered the Grant 
Estate offices. He was shown into Mr. Grant’s private 
room, and he went to the heart of his visit without pre- 
amble. The millionaire listened with an odd expression. 
His keen eye never left Charley’s face. At the close he 
said quietly: 

“Suppose you leave it to my judgment to tell Doro- 
thy as much of this as I think fit. And as for dinner 
to-night, we will call it off at my house and try Paul’s. 
I’d like to look the place over, and I know Dorothy 
would. It is my party, understand. No argument.” 

This wholly unexpected turn to the affair took Char- 
ley aback. 

“By George ! I say, Mr. Grant ! I — I didn’t hope for 
this,” he stammered. “It — it’s fine of you, sir.” 

The other gave him a kindly glance. 

“It was rather fine of you, my boy, to come to me 


THE DAY AFTER 


289 


as you did. And I’d lay odds you won't overstep the 
mark again." 

'‘You can’t lose," Charley assured him earnestly. 
Then he bethought himself of the invitations he had 
extended for the evening. "Gee, I’m in a fix," he added, 
and explained the situation. 

"Bring them all," Mr. Grant enjoined him. "Joe Link, 
the box-fighter ! I know him well, and glad I do. He’s 
square, and that’s a man’s measurement wherever you 

find him. Dorothy will delight in him. Perhaps " he 

laughed pridefully — "you’ve discovered she’s not just 
like other girls?" 

"I have," said Charley gravely. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


PATCHING A BURSTED BUBBLE 

And so it came to pass Paul’s entertained a special 
dinner-party of seven on the first night of Charley’s 
incumbency as proprietor. Mr. Grant sat at the head 
of the table. Charley was on his right and Dorothy on 
his left. Next to her sat the renowned Joseph Link, a 
little conscious of his evening clothes, and “taking the 
count,” as he would have phrased it, to the girl’s per- 
vading charm. Mr. Teeters was seated by Mr. Link, 
and Mr. Drew and Teddy Ball of the Evening Scream 
sat across from them. The crowd of the night before 
was conspicuously absent. 

Mr. Teeters had recovered from the paralysis of the 
morning. He was of a mercurial disposition, was Mr. 
Teeters, and quick to respond to Hope’s smallest whisper. 

“Say, Come-On, they turned ’em all away to-night 
before we blew in,” he cackled humorously. 

“Charley, that’s a good one Huncks handed you about 
Paul,” scoffed Teddy Ball. “Called back to the colors? 
Right! He’s been dead two years.” 

“Charley’s best move is to close up and sell the lease,” 
said Mr. Drew. 

“Let us talk it over,” suggested Mr. Grant, who had 
a reason for it. “It looks like a bad bet, but I’ve seen 
a long shot win more than once. What do you say, 
Dorothy ?” 


290 


PATCHING A BURST ED BUBBLE 291 


Miss Dorothy Grant had maintained an unusual silence 
up to now. She had been studying the place with a 
speculative eye. 

“I have an idea,” she announced. “Do you want me 
to tell it?” 

“Sure,” said Charley eagerly. 

“Are you willing to spend some money — oh, quite a 
lot?” she asked him. 

“Anything you say,” he answered. 

“Very well. What we want to do” — that “we” thrilled 
Charley — “is make this restaurant unlike anything you 
can find in New York. We shall have to make it so 
different it will be the fad to come here. The place, 
the food, the service — everything must be different!” 

“A rather large order, Dorothy,” laughed her father. 
“How are you going to fill it?” 

Dorothy puckered her brows into a thoughtful frown. 

“Why,” she replied, “we want to get away from all 
the gingerbread work in these other restaurants — all that 
pastry-cook gimcrackery they smother you with. My 
idea is to go to the other extreme — in a way.” 

“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Teeters. “I get you. Make it 
a ‘hurry up the hash’ hall.” 

Dorothy smiled. She enjoyed Mr. Teeters. 

“No, not that,” she said. “I’d wall and ceil this room 
with long-leaf yellow pine — the heart of the wood, won- 
derful of grain. I’d have a red brick floor, smoothed 
to a perfect plane. Over there at the upper end I’d 
have a fireplace — old Yorkshire — so big you could put 
a bed in it. It should have a crane, and settles by it, 
and a flambeau on either side, and oak logs burning 
when the weather called. And I should have flambeaux 
around the walls. Pine cones, each an electric bulb, 
should star the ceiling. I’d have rustic tables and chairs 


292 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


— not the scratchy kind, but solid, sure, without a nail 
or joint to catch on. And I’d have other things — I can’t 
decide on them now — and, oh, yes, in that far corner 
I’d have the music concealed behind a screen of wood- 
bine ; and if they played above piano I’d discharge them. 
And with all this I’d have a service so absolutely fault- 
less you’d go away in a dream of satisfied desires.” 
She laughed. 

Joe Link spoke, ponderously emphatic. It was his 
first remark. 

“Faith and I’m thinking the lady’s rung the bell.” 

Charley said nothing. His gaze was fastened on 
Dorothy. A faint flush, the excitement of the moment, 
tinged her cheek. She was so ravishingly fair it made 
his heart turn over as he looked at her. 

<f What would you call the place?” questioned Teddy 
Ball. “Paul’s is a Jonah now.” 

The little frown came back between Dorothy’s violet 
eyes. 

“In all the rush and hurry here — all the uproar and 
confusion — we ought to have something opposed to it, 

something How would ‘Restawhyle’ do; spelled 

with a y to make it odd?” 

“Great!” applauded Teddy. “It’s got advertising 
value. Say, Charley, I’ll weigh in with a lift for you. 
If you’ll let me write this story up, the whole busi- 
ness — Huncks and all — I’ll get it on the front page. 
Free!” 

“Huh,” grumbled Mr. Teeters. “And make monkeys 
of us. I guess not!” 

Mr. Drew offered no comment; he was counting up 
the cost. It was a gloomy outlook to him. He did not 
like it. But Mr. Grant was not so inclined. 

“It sounds rather good, Dorothy, as you’ve outlined 


PATCHING A BURST ED BUBBLE 293 


it,” he acknowledged. “But how about the cuisine? 
Your Restawhyle will have to set a pace, and you can’t 
beat Mouchard much on a mousseline de saumon or a 
supreme de volatile.” 

“Oh, that gibberish !” cried Miss Dorothy with a pretty 
pout. “We’re going to eat English in our restaurant, 
dad. If you want a fried egg you’ll get it — not un oeuf 
frit. We are going to have some things here those men 
down in Wall Street will come running for — things 
they’ve heard about and read about, and never had a 
chance to try.” She glanced around the table and ex- 
plained: “We are from the South — Georgia. I’ll bet 

you ” Dorothy was no linguistic prude — -“you don’t 

know what Hoppin’ John is, or beaten biscuit, or bar- 
becued red snapper, or egg-bread, or sweet-potato pud- 
ding, or rice-puffs, or baked ” 

“For heaven’s sake stop !” begged her father. “You’ve 
ruined my dinner, child.” 

“You see!” Dorothy nodded triumphantly at the 
others. “He’s only one. And there’s a million like 
him — people who live here and come here. He’d give 
fifty dollars right now for a corn pudding like Old 
Mammy Jane used to make. Of course we shall have 
the regular dishes — all the usual parade — but you wait 
till a good black Georgia darky, with honey in his voice 
and a bow a courtier couldn’t copy, draws out your 
chair and sits you down to golden waffles in the morning 
and chicken gumbo at night! See if you won’t come 
back and bring the folks.” 

“By George!” exploded Charley. “Wish I could see 
Huncks. Shake his hand. Did me a good turn.” 

“You’d better do a little figuring first,” cautioned 
Mr. Drew. 


294 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Charley waved the advice aside. What were mere 
dollars in a case like this? 

“Will you plan it? Boss the job?” He shot the 
questions at Dorothy impetuously. 

The girl laughed and looked at her father. 

“I’ll give a helping hand,” he smiled. “I’ll send Sam 
down to Macon to get your darkies for you, old timers, 
gentlemen in black. And I’ll loan you Sam, to start 
off with, for head-waiter. He will know how to handle 
the crew; everybody couldn’t do it. As for Sam him- 
self, he’s a cash asset. He could seat an emperor and 
make him feel it was a favor.” 

“He could!” asserted Charley. “Makes you feel as 
if he — he’d laid a wreath on you,” he finished, reddening 
at his own unwonted fluency. 

Dorothy gave him an approving glance. Sam, the 
Grants’ grizzled old negro butler, had “raised” her, he 
would have told you had you asked. Anyone who stood 
well with Dorothy stood well with Sam. By that right 
alone they were “quality folks,” which in Sam’s purview 
was equivalent to a line in Burke’s, De Brett’s or the 
Almanach de Gotha. 

Mr. Link spoke again, and there was wisdom in what 
he said. To anticipate a bit it was he, not Dorothy — 
though he would never claim it — who heaped fame on 
Restawhyle. 

“There’s a thing we’ve forgotten,” observed the for- 
mer fistic champion. “It’s the drink. Ye can feed a 
man and he’ll be happy. But if ye want to make him 
loosen up — begging the lady’s pardon — and take the 
rubber off his roll, put a drop of something wet before 
him with a tickle to it. He’ll buy balloons to pelt the 
stars with. Not ” he added, heavily apologetic — 


PATCHING A BURSTED BUBBLE 293 


“that I’d be casting stones at any good friend of mine. 
God forbid!” 

A burst of laughter greeted this from everyone but 
Dorothy. She did not laugh. 

“We shall have those things — all the wines,” she said 
to Mr. Link. 

“Of course,” he answered. “But ’tis a better thing 
I have in mind. One drink! A friend has just invented 
it. A secret he holds it, and well he may. I’ve traveled 
far, little lady, but never did I see the Gates Ajar — wide 
open, speaking truth — till I laved me tongue in Mickey 
Morrison’s new brew. ’Twas last night, and the memory 
is strong upon me yet.” 

“Good Lord!” ejaculated Mr. Drew, who had a taste 
in brews. 

“What does he call it, Joe?” Mr. Grant was also in- 
terested. 

“He calls it,” Mr. Link replied, with the solemnity 
befitting the birth of a new drink in a weary world, “he 
calls it, Mr. Grant, the ‘Feather Flip.’ Ask me no more, 
sir. ’Tis all I know, except the taste. With two of 
them ye haven’t an enemy on earth! And it’s harmless 
as the dew of heaven, Mickey says — if ye stop this side 
of four.” 

Dorothy laid her hand on Joe’s arm. The big man 
thought a dove had alighted on it. 

“You will bring Mr. Mickey Morrison to us — here — 
at ten o’clock to-morrow morning,” she commanded him. 
“We want the Feather Flip, and we’ll advertise it. We 
are going to spend on this new restaurant — how much, 
Mr. Carter? Advertising and everything?” 

“No limit. A hundred thousand. Two. Anything 
you say,” Charley told her. 

“Whoopee !” hurrahed Mr. Ball. “Watch the Scream l” 


296 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Ha !” piped Mr. Teeters. “We’ll show Huncksy how 
we fry the fritters if he comes around. Conned us, 
hey ? Ha, ha !” 

Mr. Drew suppressed a groan. His trade did not 
inculcate optimism. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


THE BITER BITTEN 

Your bred-in-the-bone New Yorker is a person who 
thinks he leads, but is usually led. He follows the 
crowd; he doesn’t always know why or for what, but 
he does — as one chip in the current follows another. 
It was the case with Come-On Charley’s Restawhyle. 
The stream set in that way, and every little individual 
canoeist paddled with might and main to keep up with 
his fellows. 

The place was closed for a month, during which* 
men worked night and day effecting the alterations 
Dorothy had planned. The week before the opening the 
newspapers and billboards blazed with advertisements of 
the new restaurant. Feather Flip, in especial, became 
a household word. On the elevated, in the subways and 
street cars, on blank walls, in ferryboats, anywhere, 
everywhere, the name was seen. Men grew curiosity- 
keen for the drink, and the press-agent work in the 
papers put a still sharper edge to the desire. 

Charley spent sixty thousand dollars in thirty days 
on this advertising campaign, before and after opening. 
Altogether, when Restawhyle threw wide its doors to 
the public Charley stood to the bad on his investment 
over two hundred thousand dollars, and it nearly put 
Mr. Drew in his bed. But he recovered when results 
began to show. 


297 


298 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Mr. Grant gave a stag party the first night. Teddy 
Ball estimated eighty millions were represented at the 
table. They were men one knew, and it made a story. 

Dorothy gave a dinner the following night. And this 
made another story; for the daughters of two hundred 
millions graced the board. You can get anything in 
the New York papers if it is flavored well with money. 

People read, and came to see for themselves. They 
ate of dishes they had never heard of before — the great 
majority — and drank Mickey Morrison’s Feather Flip. 
And Sam! He was an institution. Men swelled visibly 
under the benison of his attentions, and women blos- 
somed under it — they were ravished with the place be- 
cause of it. 

In a week Restawhyle was the fad of the season. 
And it was the only place in town where you could 
get a Feather Flip. Men fought for the tables. It was 
served only there — there was no standing bar — and it 
cost one dollar a drink. Dorothy knew her New York. 

Feather Flip came to you in a tall bohemian glass. 
There was a fluff of beaten egg on top — a whiff only 
— and what was underneath Mr. Morrison was paid a 
hundred a week, plus a handsome cash bonus, to keep 
locked within his breast — the secret of the brew. It 
was served to you with a pomp and circumstance that 
only a trained old Southern black can manage, and you 
drank it as a rite. Thereafter for a solid hour you were 
the peer of kings. It was worth the price. 

After the theater on a night in the fourth week of 
Restawhyle Miss Dorothy Grant and Mr. Carter were 
supping at a table in a quiet corner. Charley had re- 
served it in advance, for now, of a verity, the restaurant 
was “turning ’em away.” 


THE BITER BITTEN 


299 


“See who’s here, Dorothy!” exclaimed Charley. It 
had come to that between them — given names — and quite 
naturally after days of close association in the work of 
reconstructing Paul’s. 

Dorothy looked around and bowed to Messrs. Drew, 
Link and Teddy Ball, who had come in and claimed a 
table near by. They returned the salute and Mr. Ball 
waved his hand sportively at Charley; but they did not 
offer to come over. There was a reason apparent, per- 
haps, to the most somnolent reader of these lines. 

“Where is Merciful Skeeters ?” inquired Dorothy. She 
reveled in the name. 

“Give it up,” said Charley. “Thought he was with 
them.” 

“You didn’t answer my question,” prompted Doro- 
thy, reverting to something that had gone before. 
“Mickey Morrison has bought a car. He has been ar- 
rested twice for speeding. Suppose he has a smash-up? 
Suppose he gets himself killed?” 

“Gee,” said Charley. “Would put a crimp in me. 
Guess I’d better get that recipe.” 

“You’d better,” urged Dorothy. “Feather Flip is a 
mint for Restawhyle. Just look!” 

Charley did so. The tall bohemian glasses were every- 
where. He leaned over to the girl, his hazel eyes glow- 
ing. 

“Say, Dorothy, I owe it all to you. I was stung. No 
chance till you pulled me out. Shop cleared nine thou- 
sand last week. Same the week before. Six before 
that. Three so far this week. Half yours. Only fair. 
Let me ” 

She stopped him, shaking her head, and smiling. 

“It’s absurd. I thought we had settled that. You 


300 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


don’t know the fun I’ve had out of all this. Dad is 
proud of me. He says ” 

“Proud!” broke in Charley. “I’m so proud of you, 
I— I ” 

His voice died away. Fear gripped him. Ten — no 
twenty times in the last week he had been on the point 
of speaking out his heart; but she was so beautiful, so 
fine, and true, and free of artifice — so straight and 
square in all she said and did — so sisterly — yes, that 
was it! That was what held his tongue! That was 
what he was afraid of ! She might say she’d be a sister 
to him — girls said that, he had heard — and if she did 
his life was blighted. At twenty-four he would be a 
hopeless wreck, with nothing to look forward to but 
an early grave! 

That was the way Charley felt — as we, you and I, 
good, graying reader, felt once upon a time, when the 
grass was greener than it is to-day, the flowers sweeter, 
and Spring still led us by the hand. 

“He says, dad does,” went on Miss Grant, yet not so 
evenly as before and with evasive eyes, “that I’d make 
a good business woman.” 

“Good!” Charley gulped in a long breath to give 
him voice again. “You’re the finest in New York. Got 
them all whipped!” 

“I’ll think of that while I’m away,” Dorothy an- 
swered sweetly. “It’s nice of you to say it.” 

“Away? Leave town?” Amazed incredulity swept 
Charley’s face clean of other emotions. 

“Next week. On the Kelpie. Dad’s yacht. To Ber- 
muda. For a month.” She was mocking him — his way 
of speech — and from under lowered lids she wickedly 
surveyed the havoc the words wrought. 

Charley gazed at her dully. His world was tumbling 


THE BITER BITTEN 


30T 


about him. He looked away from her and around the 
room to see if it was not in ruins also; and as he did 
his eye fell on Mr. Teeters threading his way among 
the tables toward him. With Mr. Teeters was someone 
else. The sight partially restored Charley’s scattered 
wits. 

“By George!” he mumbled. 

Miss Dorothy, following his gaze, had likewise per- 
ceived Mr. Teeters’s companion. She saw, too, that the 
long, lank secretary was agitated. At the other table 
Mr. Drew and his friends were staring at him. 

“Who is it?” asked Dorothy. 

“Huncks!” said Charley. 

“Oh !” cried Dorothy, delighted. “Introduce him.” 
Then she said, a little low : “I forgot to mention there’s 
an extra room on the Kelpie — if you can get away, Char- 
ley.” 

“Watch me!” 

There was no chance to say more. Mr. Teeters and 
Mr. Huncks had come up — but Charley’s manner un- 
derwent a distinct change. His back straightened, and 
he grinned at Mr. Huncks, almost affectionately. 

“Good old sport! Glad to see you,” he greeted the 
beefy trickster. “Didn’t stay long in ’Frisco?” 

Mr. Huncks returned the grin. 

“Saw all I wanted of it in the movies.” 

Charley introduced him to Dorothy. She beamed on 
him, for she joyed in chance adventures. 

“So glad to have the pleasure,” she said cordially. 

“Two Feather Flips,” Charley instructed the waiter. 

“Say, Come-On,” burst out Mr. Teeters, who had im- 
patiently viewed these preliminaries, “Huncksy is all 
right. Met him coming out of the show, and we been 
talking. He wants to buy the place back.” 


302 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Huncks looked dubiously at Dorothy. 

“Talk up,” Charley invited him. “Miss Grant planned 
all this. We’re partners. Sort of,” he amended, alarmed 
at his boldness. 

“Well, it’s like this,” began Mr. Huncks, making no 
bones of his rascality. “I sold you a dead mule, I 
thought, but there was another kick left in him, by 
Jinks! I’ve been keeping tab on the place, and it’s a 
winner. Let me see the books and stock, and it’s a 
case of how much, that’s all. A couple of boys with a 
little loose change are in with me, and we’re willing to 
buy — at a price.” 

“Three hundred thousand,” said Charley tersely. 

“Help!” cried Mr. Huncks. Then he laughed indul- 
gently. “Say, boy, quit your kidding. I’m talking busi- 
ness. Cash.” 

“Same here,” Charley said. “Wouldn’t sell, but am 
going away. California.” He grinned and continued: 
“Cost me two hundred and four thousand. Cleared to 
date twenty-seven thousand. You’ll pay a hundred thou- 
sand for the fun you had with me. More to-morrow. 
More next day. Take it or leave it.” 

The negro waiter set down before Mr. Huncks a 
Feather Flip. It was a ceremony, and it impressed the 
rogue he served. 

“It’s this stuff that put the kick in the mule,” he 
asserted. “And — say — that sweet-potato pudding ! Ooo ! 
I’ve slipped in here once or twice on the quiet. Call 
it two hundred and fifty thousand — everything as it 
stands — and I’m on.” 

“Not the head waiter — Sam,” interjected Dorothy. 
“He’s only loaned, you know. My father’s butler.” 

“Oh!” said Mr. Huncks. “Well, I guess one nigger 
more or less won’t matter. There’s plenty others. What 


THE BITER BITTEN 


do you say, Carter — two hundred and fifty thousand ?” 

Charley took out his watch. 

“Three hundred thousand now. Five more every min- 
ute after.” 

Mr. Huncks drank his Feather Flip in ten seconds. 
He should have sipped it, but time was money. 

“It’s robbery ! Strong-arm work ! But ” he 

sighed heavily — “all right. You’ve got the drop on me.” 

Dorothy gave Charley a swift glance; her eyes were 
dancing. Charley spoke to his secretary. 

“Mr. Drew. See him? Ask him over. Business.” 

“Hopping Henry!” cackled Mr. Teeters to himself 
as he departed on his errand. “Come-On’s mighty near 
got his million.” 

“Well, it’s happened as I feared it would !” 

It was the day after the sale to Huncks was con- 
summated and the money paid. Charley was calling on 
the Grants. He had just come in, and it was Dorothy 
who spoke. 

“Yes,” said Charley. “Mickey’s pretty well smashed 
up. Concussion of the brain. May die. Weeks, any- 
way. And he wouldn’t write that recipe. Afraid some- 
one would steal it.” 

“I rather fancy our friend Huncks is in a pickle,” 
observed Mr. Grant. “I’ve recalled my loan of Sam — 
I want him on the Kelpie — and now he’s lost the Feather 
Flip.” 

“Too bad,” grinned Charley. 

There was a pause. Dorothy was laughing softly. 

“You did well to sell,” mused the millionaire. “A 
restaurant is a gamble. A new man, new idea, new 
dish — anything — may draw the trade away overnight to 
another place. As with Restawhyle ” 


304 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Thought of that,” Charley said. “Got my money 
back. Cleaned up a hundred and twenty-three thou- 
sand. Owe it all to Dorothy.” 

“No ! Joe Link comes in,” protested the girl. 

“And Joe,” admitted Charley, though reluctantly. He 
wanted Dorothy to have all the credit. Mr. Grant re- 
garded them amusedly. 

“To my thinking you are both wrong. You owe it 
all to Huncks. Come, now — isn’t it so?” 

Dorothy nodded a laughing assent. That settled it. 

“Sure,” said Charley. 


CHAPTER XXX 


PREPARING FOR A KILLING 

“Say, wait a minute, Come-On. Look here!” 

Mr. Percival Teeters came to a sudden stop, like a 
lean pointer to the scent. He gazed at a dazzling array 
of Spring neckwear in a haberdasher’s shop just south 
of Black’s chop-house — and every Broadway flaneur 
knows where that is. A young man who, two corners 
below, had fallen in behind the pair also stopped; he 
edged up to them as they stood looking in at the show- 
window. 

“The ‘Soul Kiss Scarf/ Pretty scrumptious, hey?” 
Mr. Teeters commented. 

“Kind of noisy,” said Mr. Carter. “Scare the horses. 
Ought to have a cut-off.” 

The young man standing near laughed in open good- 
fellowship. 

“Make a brass band sound like a lullaby,” he re- 
marked. 

They turned and inspected him. He wore an Argen- 
tine frock, braided, with a double pink in the button- 
hole, and a semiconical silk hat that smote Mr. Teeters 
as the last extreme of elegance. A cast in one eye, 
the right, gave him a humorous expression which in- 
vited confidence. 

“Swell, just the same,” pronounced the secretary. 
“They’ll know you are in town if you push one of 
303 


306 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


those bibs in front of you. By gum, I’m going to get 
me one!” 

He started into the shop, and Charley followed. So 
did the stranger. 

“Those silk handkerchiefs stab me to the heart,” he 
said with his easy laugh. “I’ll tear off a dozen of ’em. 
Don’t want to leave all my money to the old folks. 
They’ve got a plenty.” 

Now parenthetically let it be recorded that Mr. Tee- 
ters’s impelling motive in acquiring for his wardrobe a 
“Soul Kiss Scarf” lay in the ravishing fact that he was 
to be of the party on the cruise of Mr. George Francis 
Grant’s palatial steam yacht Kelpie in tropic seas. Miss 
Dorothy Grant had only that afternoon extended the 
invitation. One of her guests had failed her, owing 
to circumstances beyond his control, and she immedi- 
ately telephoned Mr. Teeters. She delighted in him. He 
was a flowing spring of entertainment to the whimsical 
girl, and she regretted that she had not asked him first- 
hand. Now her opportunity was come she embraced it 
eagerly. 

It was a Tuesday early in May, and the Kelpie was 
to sail on the Friday morning tide at six o’clock. They 
would spend Thursday night on board. On Wednesday 
they were to lunch on the yacht. The “Restawhyle 
Seven,” Dorothy called the party — her father, Mr. Sam- 
uel Drew, Joe Link, Teddy Ball of the Evening Scream 
and, of course, Charley and Mr. Teeters. It was they 
who had put an unexpected kick in Mr. Simeon Huncks’s 
“dead mule” and Dorothy wanted another laugh over it 
in the circle which could best appreciate the animal’s 
marvelous resuscitation. 

Mr. Teeters, since receiving his invitation, had floated 
in a whirl of excitement. There were to be girls on the 


PREPARING FOR A KILLING 


307 

cruise — daisies — and rich! He would cut a dash with 
’em. He’d open their eyes a bit. He’d show ’em a 
line of he-duds they’d remember for a while. So he 
bought a “Soul Kiss” and, in emulation of the pleasing 
stranger in the Argentine frock, he laid in a supply of 
the flamboyant silk handkerchiefs which had cried at- 
tention from the window. 

The young man helped him choose the colors. He 
was very friendly and frankly communicative. He had 
been in New York only a few days, he said, and did 
not know his way about very well. But he was learning. 
Out home everybody always spoke to everybody else, 
and that must be his apology for speaking to them. He 
hoped they w r ould take it in good part. 

“Sure,” said Charley. “Glad to meet you. My name 
is Carter.” He held out his hand. 

“Crisp, Clarence Crisp, is my name,” made known 
the other. He shook Charley’s hand, and reached for 
Mr. Teeters’s inquiringly. 

“I answer to Percival Teeters when they blow the 
dinner-horn,” said that gentleman facetiously. 

“No! You don’t say?” exclaimed Mr. Crisp. He 
drew back a step and glanced his admiration. “You are 
not the Percival Teeters I’ve read about? This is not 
the Mr. Carter who took the hide off Wall Street last 
November? Not the Mr Carter who ” 

“That’s him,” Mr Teeters interrupted. “And,” he 
added, “it’s me you read about. We are them.” 

Mr. Crisp fairly effervesced with pleasure. His squint 
eye did tricks that made him more humorously attrac- 
tive than ever. 

“Well, this is what I call luck!” he declared. “The 
papers back home have been full of you two — columns f 
I had it in my mind to hunt you up, if I could. Just 


308 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


wanted a look at you. Say ” they were out of the 

shop now — '“come on in to Black’s and have a drink. 
Wine. I made a killing yesterday and I’m wadded to the 
neck with that U. S. yellow stuff.” 

“Late. Got to get home to dinner,” demurred Char- 
ley. 

But Mr. Teeters’s curiosity was evoked. 

“Killing, what kind of a killing?” he desired to know. 

“Races. Down at Louisville,” Mr. Crisp explained. 
“A chap I met gave me a tip on Pluto. Odds against 
him three to one — and he ran away from the bunch! 
Left ’em playing tag with their tails in the stretch. 
There was nothing to it but count the money. Say, 
come on in and spill a quart with me, just for luck. 
I cleaned up six thousand on that little bay colt and I’ve 
got to celebrate.” 

“Merry Moses!” cried Mr. Teeters. And then, as 
Charley still hung back. “What’s eating you, Come-On ? 
Take a cigar if you don’t want a drink.” 

“A box,” offered Mr. Crisp prodigally. “Anything 
you name.” 

“All right. Try a smoke,” said Charley, yielding to 
the pressure. 

They went in, and as they cast about for a table Mr. 
Crisp gave an exclamation of joyful surprise. 

“I’m a Dutchman if there ain’t old Ben Goggins! 
O-oo! See what he’s doing. He must have hit ’em 
heavy to-day.” 

He pointed to a thick-set, red-faced man, with gray- 
ing hair, at the farther end of the room. This person 
was alone. A cigar was stuck at an acute angle in 
one side of his mouth, and he was running through, with 
moistened finger, a stack of bank-notes which, if Mr. 


PREPARING FOR A KILLING 


309 


Teeters was any judge, stood a foot high on the table 
before him. Charley viewed the sight with interest. 

“Who is Coggins?” he asked of Mr. Crisp. 

“Betting commissioner for Delmont, Vanbilt and that 
crowd of goldbugs. Taps the poolrooms for ’em. A 
motorbus came near running over him yesterday. I was 
passing and pulled him back just in time. Had a 
drink together, and he gave me Pluto — the tip. Said 
I’d saved his life. Never saw a man so grateful. But 
come on over and I’ll introduce you. Maybe he’ll tell 
us something.” 

Mr. Goggins looked up from his task as they ap- 
proached. He appeared pleased. 

“Why, hello, Clarence !” he saluted his guardian-angel 
of the day before. “What’s doing?” 

“Watering the ponies,” replied Mr. Crisp, rolling his 
swivel eye at his companions. “Have a bucket?” 

“Don’t mind,” assented Mr. Goggins. “Sit down. 
Wait a minute till I finish this.” 

He put his finger to his tongue and went on flipping 
over the bills, mumbling to himself the count — 

“Hundred and five — ten — twenty — thirty — thirty-five 
— forty-five — fifty — sixty — sixty-five — seventy ” 

He paused, frowning. He had come to the bottom of 
the stack. Mr. Teeters’s eyes bulged from his head. The 
man was counting in thousands! Those were five and 
ten thousand bills under his hand! 

“Confound you, Crisp !” complained Mr. Goggins. 
“You made me miss a shot. Ought to be a hundred 
and seventy-five thousand, and I only make it a hundred 
and seventy. Well — never mind. I’ll go over it again 
with Delmont. It’s his.” 

He reached under his coat and pulled around to the 
front a leather bag. It hung from his shoulder by a 


310 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


strap. He stowed the notes away in the bag and slewed 
it back into place. Then he looked at Mr. Crisp, who 
introduced his friends, mentioning pridefully their wide 
repute. 

“You don’t have to tell me about these boys,” spoke 
up Mr. Goggins with gruff heartiness. “Never met 
’em before, but, Lord, I’ve heard enough about ’em! 
The old con game ain’t what it useter was before they 
came to town.” 

He chuckled and wagged his head at the two sad 
young dogs across the table. Charley rather liked his 
bluff way. 

“Easy going now for the Hey-Henries,” observed Mr. 
Teeters jocularly. 

“Yes, sir-ee! You can’t step out no more and sell 
the moon for a slice o’ pie to the brother from Ga- 
zinksville,” responded Mr. Goggins with another chuckle. 

Mr. Crisp, who had been busy with the waiter, turned 
to the commissioner. 

“Ben, I drew down six M’s on Pluto yesterday. Your 
tip was twenty-four carats fine.” 

Mr. Goggins shrugged. 

“Sam Regan was up, and I knew what was going to 
happen, sonny. I get the dope straight from the works. 
Glad you made a little change.” 

Mr. Crisp squinted comically at Charley. 

“Thinks I’m a piker. He bets ’em fifty thousand at 
a whack. Say, Ben, got anything for to-morrow? I 
couldn’t get around to-day. Business.” 

Mr. Goggins examined his cigar, found it had gone 
out, and relighted it with care. Then he remarked: 

“There’s one or two good things. What d’ye want 
to do, Clarence, let these boys in on the velvet?” 

“Why, I wasn’t thinking of that,” returned Mr. Crisp. 


PREPARING FOR A KILLING 


311 


“Wanted it for myself. But if they’d like to grab off 
a few thousands ” 

He looked at Charley, who shook his head. 

“No time. Busy. Going away Friday.” 

“Oh ! You’re going away !” Mr. Crisp’s tone ex- 
pressed disappointment. He drank the glass of cham- 
pagne at his hand, and filled it again thoughtfully. Mr. 
Goggins laughed in his gruff, whole-hearted way. 

“Friday’s a long way off, young feller. You could 
build a house between now and then. And furnish it.” 

“Gollamighty, Come-On, you don’t have to ride the . 
horse yourself !” burst out Mr. Teeters, who was warm- 
ing with his wine. “All you got to do is place your 
bet and take the money.” 

“Look at me !” exclaimed Mr. Crisp. “Ben here 
gives me a tip yesterday. I drop around to the pool- 
room in Forty-fifth Street, hand two thousand to the 
book, wait thirty minutes — Pluto was in the first — and 
walk out with six thousand yellow boys buttoned in my 
jeans. Time? You can do it between drinks!” 

“Don’t know anything about horse-racing,” said Char- 
ley stubbornly. 

“Neither do I,” Mr. Crisp assured him. “You don’t 
have to. But Ben knows. If he’d tip us off, it’s good 
as money in the bank. How about it, Ben?” 

“Let him alone, Clarence,” reproved Mr. Goggins. 
“Mebbe he’s got scruples against it, and I for one re- 
spect a man’s scruples, if they ain’t no bigger than 
bumps on the jelly.” 

“Oh, of course!” agreed Mr. Crisp quickly. 

“But,” continued Mr. Goggins, “if you want a little 
play yourself, Clarence, come around to the shop be- 
fore the ponies start. I shouldn’t be surprised if I 


312 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


could put you on to a ten-to-one shot. I'll know for 
sure in the morning.” 

He emptied his glass, stretched himself and got up. 
Mr. Crisp sought to detain him. 

“You ain’t leaving? I wanted to ask you about the 
Derby. That,” he informed the others, “is the big 
noise at Churchill Downs this week. Thursday. Sit 
down, Ben. The bottle’s going begging.” 

Mr. Goggins declined the invitation firmly. 

“Can’t. Got to see Gus Delmont at seven, and it’s 
six-thirty now. Got to turn this boodle over to him. 
He’s a hundred and fifty thousand to the good on the 
day’s work. Pleased to have met you, gents. So long.” 

He nodded pleasantly and walked away. Mr. Teeters 
finished his second glass, and with it spoke his mind. 

“I ain’t breaking out with kale so as I got to call a 
doctor,” he avowed, “but I got a hundred I could stand 
to see something happy happen to.” 

Mr. Crisp cast his humorous eye upon him. 

“Why not?” he quizzed. “Carfare comes in handy 
in this town. I’m going to play Ben Goggins’s tip to- 
morrow. If you want me to I’ll put you on with mine.” 

Mr. Teeters hesitated. This elegantly attired stranger 
was, after all, but a stranger, and a hundred dollars 
was two weeks’ salary. He looked askance at Char- 
ley, but received no encouragement. Mr. Carter merely 
consulted his watch and went on smoking. Mr. Teeters 
slowly slipped his hand into his inside vest-pocket; and 
right there his doubts took wing. Mr. Crisp waved him 
down. 

“Never mind the money, old scout. Hold up your 
finger, that’s good enough for me. We’ll settle after 
the race. It’s the Rirebien you’re staying at, isn’t it? 
That’s where they had you in the papers.” 


PREPARING FOR A KILLING 


313 


“Yes,” Mr. Teeters told him, much relieved. 

“Good! I’ll run in to-morrow evening after dinner. 
Fill your glass and we’ll drink to luck. Won’t you join 
us, Mr. Carter? Just one before you go?” 

“No,” Charley answered, but with a grin. “Not that 
stuff. Too expensive. Cost me a hundred thousand 
dollars once. One bottle.” 


CHAPTER XXXI 


ON THE “KELPIE” 

The Kelpie lay off the foot of West Eighty-sixth 
Street in the Columbia Yacht Club basin. She was a 
bark-rigged, twin-screw, ocean-going cruiser, two hun- 
dred and eighty feet over all, with a thirty-seven foot 
beam. If there was anything she lacked in the way 
of luxurious equipment — from a photo dark-room to an 
ice-machine — it was yet to be invented. Only a prince 
or plutocrat could keep such a craft in commission. 

It was after the “Restawhyle” luncheon on Wednes- 
day. Dorothy and her guests sat around under the 
awning aft, drinking their coffee. The party, however, 
was not complete. Mr. Samuel Drew was the missing 
member. He had sent Dorothy a telegram at the last 
moment, and it read rather curiously, to wit: 

Dreadfully sorry. Sudden illness confines me to 
bed. Bon voyage. 

This, we repeat, read rather curiously in view of the 
fact that the lawyer was seen in apparent robust health 
by Mr. Teddy Ball — himself unseen — at twelve o’clock 
that day. He was stepping into Keenan’s bar in Nas- 
sau Street as Mr. Ball was hurrying from the Scream 
office to the Fulton Street station of the subway. 

Mr, Ball had called to him, but it did not carry, and 

sn 


ON THE “ KELPIE ” 


315 


he went on. Dorothy’s invitation was for one o’clock, 
and he was of no mind to be late. Again, Mr. Drew’s 
message was filed at eleven forty-five, which added to 
its oddity ; for, it would seem, the gentleman was not 
stricken until some time after he had sent the telegram 
conveying the distressing news. Things like these cause 
comment, and they were reverting to it now on the 
Kelpie. 

“The man’s dodging us,” asseverated Mr. Link. 

“But why?” asked Dorothy. 

“He has something on his mind. I’ve noticed it 
lately,” hinted the ex-champion darkly. 

“Oh !” said Dorothy. “Perhaps it is business troubles.” 

“Perhaps,” suggested Mr. Ball with great gravity, 
“it’s love. The older they get the harder it hits. Makes 
’em act up sometimes.” 

They laughed. Mr. Teeters, who had been uncan- 
nily quiet, awed by his strange surroundings, opened 
his mouth at this juncture and, as many another man 
has done, put his foot in it. 

“It’s Come-On he’s doing the bo-peep with. Drew’s 
afraid he’ll have to come across with the coin Charley’s 
Uncle Billy left him. Two millions !” 

“What?” whooped Teddy Ball. “Do you mean to 
say, Charley, you haven’t got the money yet? Why, the 
Scream — all the papers — printed it! How Drew found 
you — oh, mother!” He could get no farther. Sur- 
prise smothered him. 

“Huh!” growled Mr. Link. “So it’s that!” 

Mr. Teeters, aghast at what he had done, wiggled his 
mustache and eyed Charley apprehensively. When 
moved to wrath Mr. Carter did things with startling 
unexpectedness. He was not communicative about his 
affairs. The world had accepted him as a millionaire 


316 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


de facto , and he had let it go at that. Mr. Teeters, 
knowing his chief, had also kept a rein on his tongue 
in this regard; and now, unthinkingly, he had blurted 
out the secret. But happily Charley did not resent it; 
quite the contrary, in fact. 

“Good boy, Skeeters,” he applauded. “Kept it a 
whole year. Medal coming to you.” 

“I don’t get the drift of all this,” put in Mr. Grant, 
looking from one to the other of the two young men. 

“Nor I!” exclaimed Dorothy. “And I despise mys- 
teries. If it’s a thing that can be told, tell it, Charley, 
or I’ll send you home.” 

“Long story,” Charley answered her. “Tiresome. 
“Tell it, Percy. Your job. Secretary.” 

Thus commanded Mr. Teeters embarked upon the 
narrative, adorning it as he went along with felicitous 
terms of speech peculiarly his own. When he had fin- 
ished, Dorothy, whose eyes dwelt on Charley in a way 
Mr. Ball found himself coveting, said softly — 

“So from just ten thousand dollars you have made a 
million in a year?” 

“Not yet. Nearly forty thousand shy,” Charley cor- 
rected her. 

“It isn’t the money — you will make the rest.” She 
waved it aside as a thing accomplished. “It — it’s your 
cleverness.” 

“Faith, and it’s true ye speak, little lady,” boomed Mr. 
Link. “Those Blue Fleas now ” 

“Luck,” Charley interrupted. “Came my way. 

Couldn’t help it. And ” he wished to give due credit 

—“Drew was right. Reputation did it. All thought I 
had money. Tried to get it. I got theirs. Simple.” 

“That’s all very well,” said Mr. Grant. “But how 


ON THE “KELPIE” 


317 


about these two millions. Have you seen your uncle’s 
will?” 

“Yes. Didn’t read it, though. Trouble. Took Mr. 
Drew’s word,” he replied. “Had to make my starter 
grow.” 

“Then you really don’t know whether the money is 
there or not?” questioned Dorothy, wrinkling her smooth 
brows. 

“Have it out with Drew to-day,” advised Mr. Link. 
“The man seems all right, but — he’s a lawyer. God 
forbid I ever fall afoul of one!” 

“Let me interview him for you, Charley,” prompted 
Teddy Ball. “I promise you I’ll get the meat of the 
matter — or his goat.” 

There was an odd look in Charley’s hazel eyes. Mr. 
Drew had noticed it there at times when the late Mr. 
William Halstead’s millions were up for discussion. 
Mr. Grant, studying the boy, put a question to him : 

“What do you honestly think of it, Charley? The 
'starter’ business doesn’t ring just true, somehow. You 
don’t think Drew — eh?” 

Charley regarded him soberly. 

“Straight as a string. Good fellow. Got to make my 
million first. Then ” 

He reached over and took a perfecto from the box on 
the wicker table near him and lighted it in lieu of com- 
pleting the sentence. 

“Dad !” cried Dorothy excitedly. “How can he do 
it? There must be a way. Before we sail!” 

“Lord love us!” ejaculated Mr. Link. “I wish I 
knew it. That’s a thousand an hour.” 

Mr. Grant laughed. 

“There may be a wizard’s way, Dotty, but I don’t 
know it. Wall Street is barred, faro is uncertain, and 


318 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


there is nothing else on now in other gentlemanly pur- 
suits except highway robbery and plain till-tapping, both 
of which are somewhat hazardous.” 

“What’s wrong with the races?” piped up Mr. Tee- 
ters. “I know a guy ” 

He caught Charley’s eye and subsided. Mr. Carter, 
for a reason he could not precisely define, was averse 
to publishing his acquaintance with Messrs. Crisp and 
Goggins. 

“Oh, the Kentucky Derby !” said Mr. Grant. His face 
lighted up, for he loved a horse. “That is a real sport- 
ing chance. But unless you are on the ground to judge 
the form yourself it’s a risky business plunging on a 
colt.” 

“The talent is playing Early Boy like the big drum in 
the band,” Mr. Ball observed. 

“Yes, he’s the favorite,” conceded the millionaire 
sportsman. “Personally, I lean to Almo. I’ve followed 
that gray rather closely and I’ve an idea he’ll be heard 
from to-morrow. However ” and he smiled at Doro- 

thy — “I wouldn’t advise Charley to go forty thousand 
on him. There are two sides to a race, remember.” 

“Like a fence,” interjected Mr. Link. “The wrong and 
the right.” 

“Exactly. And the gate swings both ways.” 

Mr. Grant got up and strolled forward. Some stores 
were coming alongside and he wanted to have a look at 
them. There was a case of old red Chianti he was a 
little particular about. 

Dorothy also arose. She glanced at Charley — a barely 
perceptible flash it was — and loitered over to the stern 
taffrail. He did not tarry a decent second ; he followed 
her brazenly and they hung upon the rail talking. Mr. 
Ball winked at Joe Link. 


ON THE “KELPIE” 


319 


“I should worry about that forty thousand if I was 
Charley,” he chaffed. 

“Um !” grunted the man of muscle, and pulled stolidly 
at his cigar. Yet his heart was soft for Charley and 
the girl ; for Mr. Link was Irish, and it was the Spring- 
time. 

“Say, Teet,” continued the reporter, “you’ve got a part 
to dress on this trip. Betty Walters is going. She’s so 
rich it hurts her. It’s your cue, Merciful, my boy. A 
whole month to make a killing in ! O'f course you know 
the proper togs for a yacht cruise?” 

“I guess!” returned Mr. Teeters confidently. “Got a 
trunkful.” 

“Any ducks?” queried Mr. Ball. 

“Ducks?” echoed Mr. Teeters blankly. 

“Look here 1” Mr. Ball showed astonishment. 
“You’re not telling me you haven’t any ducks? White, 
you know, with green braid down the pants, and on the 
sleeves and cap — sea color.” 

“N-no,” stammered the secretary. “I ain’t got them. 
And Come-On ain’t, either.” 

“What d’ye think of that, Joe?” appealed Mr. Ball 
despairingly. “He was going off without his ducks! 
And with Betty Walters on board — the biggest catch 
of the year!” 

Mr. Link perceived there was something in the wind 
but, not knowing exactly what it was and being wholly 
unversed in nautical affairs, he simply turned loose a 
cloud of smoke and grunted. 

“You wear the pants creased at the sides, Teet,” went 
on the Scream man earnestly, “and a silver anchor be- 
tween two stars on the coat. It’s the hailing sign of 
yachtsmen in all the seven seas.” 

The stars and anchor were, of a truth, the insignia of 


320 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


a rear-admiral in the navy; but Mr. Ball neglected to 
mention this. Mr. Teeters was disturbed as he thought 
how narrowly he had missed this important feature of 
his wardrobe. 

“Where do you get this make-up, Teddy?” he de- 
manded. “I didn’t see any on Broadway.” 

Teddy smiled on him pityingly. 

“Of course not. You get ’em at a regular yachtsman’s 
outfitter. You hike along with me when we go down- 
town and I’ll take you to a place. Friend of mine. 
He’ll fix you up. Have the whole rig ready by to-mor- 
row night.” 

“I’m hard to fit,” said Mr. Teeters mistrustfully. He 
was consumed with fear that it could not be done in 
time. 

“Pooh!” Mr. Ball blew the thought to the roving 
winds. Leave that to Elwood. You can come aboard 
straight from his shop. And, by Jove, say, I’ll come 
with you! I’d like to see Charley’s face when he finds 
you’ve put it over on him. Keep it dark, Teety.” 

Mr. Teeters cackled. A pleasing picture of himself, 
dawning carelessly elegant upon Miss Betty Walters and 
the assembled company in the brilliantly lighted saloon, 
arose before his mental view. He fondled his drooping 
auburn mustache and expressed his thanks handsomely 
to his friend in need. 

“I’ve got to chalk up one on your side, Teddy. You 
done me a good turn to-day.” 

“Don’t mention it, old chap,” said Mr. Ball, modestly 
declining to take^ merit to himself. “I only want to see 
you start right on this trip. There’ll be some nifty 
dressers among the men, and you don’t want to go 
around looking like a back number.” 

Mr. Link coughed — he glimpsed the situation now 


ON THE “ KELPIE ” 


821 


— but Mr. Ball refused to meet his eye. He couldn’t 
trust himself. 

While this was going on Dorothy was saying to 
Charley : 

“Dad is funny. He has five thousand down on Almo 
— at his club. I heard him say so. But he doesn’t 
want you to be guided by him. If you should lose ” 

Charley nodded. 

“Understand. Responsibility. I’d feel that way too. 
Wish I could get in, just the same.” 

“Charley ! Would you?” Dorothy’s eyes sparkled. She 
was her father’s daughter, and — there is nothing origi- 
nal in the remark — women are born gamblers. 

“Sure I would,” said Charley, doubly sure because of 
Dorothy’s delight. 

“You would bet on Almo?” 

“Any horse you say.” He would have bet on a 
clothes-horse at her bidding. 

“But how? There are no poolrooms any more. It’s 
against the law.” 

“That so?” frowned Charley. “Gee, I didn’t know 
it. Never thought of racing till now.” 

“If dad ” 

“He won’t,” grinned Charley. “But maybe I can find 
a way. I’ll see. Ask a policeman. They know.” 

Dorothy laughed, yet Charley was more than half in 
earnest. Since his Christmas princely check to the Po- 
lice Pension Fund there was not a “flat-foot” on the 
force who did not remember him in his prayers — when 
he said them. Charley thought he could get a line on 
that Forty-fifth Street place. He knew there were card- 
rooms under police protection, why not poolrooms? 

“I’d give anything,” bubbled Dorothy, “to hear what 
dad says if you make your forty thousand on the Derby.” 


322 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“And Mr. Drew,” amended Charley, his grin growing. 

“Yes! Yes!” cried the girl. “If you could only cor- 
ner him before we go — if you only could!” 

Charley looked at her and turned serious. Her wind- 
blown, fine-spun hair of gold, her eyes dancing like 
amethystine shadows on rippling waters, her cheeks 
tinted with the rose-flush of the dawn, her lips — but 
why go on, especially when the going is so hard? A 
family-man, with the rent overdue and a testy grocer 
pounding on the door, cannot coin metaphors ad lib. 
He has no liberty. And Charley’s thoughts just then 
did not dwell on Dorothy’s hair or eyes or cheeks — 
though they may have lingered on her lips ; he was sim- 
ply in love with her all over and he wanted to tell her 
about it. So he said: 

“That million. Suppose I don’t get it? Suppose I 
lose on Almo? Dorothy ” 

There was a note in his voice which caused her to 
draw back a little — perhaps to get a better view of him, 
or, it might be, to screen him from curious eyes, for 
she stood directly in front of him. Girls have strange 
ways at times. 

“Well?” She waited for him to go on. 

Her calmness frightened him. 

“Dorothy! I — you — Dorothy!” He came to another 
pause and gripped the rail as if the boat were sinking 
under him. 

“That is three times you’ve called my name, Mr. Car- 
ter, and with unnecessary stress,” she informed him with 
asperity. “You seem” — she gave him a cruel look — “to 
like it.” 

“Dorothy!” 

“Again ?” 

Charley gripped the rail with both hands. He tried 


ON THE “ KELPIE ” 


323 


to speak. The words he wanted would not come. He 
tried again, desperately, and choked out: 

“Nine hundred thousand. Not much. But housekeep- 
ing. Rub along. Make more. Dorothy, I — I ” 

“I don’t believe it,” jeered Dorothy, gloating over 
his confusion. “Lots of men have said it to me. Lots ! 
It didn’t strangle them either. It came out just as 
smooth as — as molasses. What you need is practice, Mr. 
Carter. Some darling girls are going with us. Per- 
haps ” she gave him a second look — “you may im- 

prove before we get home again.” 

With this she walked airily away, leaving Charley 
clinging limply to the rail. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


MR. CRISP CALLS 

Charley had driven over to the Yacht Club with Mr. 
Teeters and Mr. Link in his big French car. Only Mr. 
Link went back with him. Mr. Teeters and Mr. Ball 
sneaked off by themselves on the subway. 

“Police Station, Billy. West Forty-seventh Street , 1 ” 
Charley instructed his man. 

Mr. Link eyed him curiously. 

“What’s the trouble?” he asked. 

“Wait,” was Charley’s cryptic reply. 

They ran down the Drive to Seventy-second Street 
and thence down Tenth Avenue to Forty-seventh. The 
lieutenant in charge received them with all the honors, 
and when they came away he went with them himself 
to the car. 

“Leave it to us, Mr. Carter. You go right ahead,” 
was his parting injunction. 

“Maybe he won’t come,” said Charley. 

“I’d hate to have a bet on that end of it,” laughed the 
officer. 

They drove east to the Hotel Rirebien, but as they 
were in the act of drawing up to the door of that gilded 
hostelry a sudden thought struck Charley and he bade 
Billy keep on to Lexington Avenue and run down it to 
Gramercy Park. Mr. Drew lived there. 

324 


MR. CRISP CALLS 


325 


“A-ha!” barked Mr. Link. “Going to see the sick 
man ?” 

“Yes. Got a card, Joe?” 

“No. What for?” 

“Let him know we called,” returned Charley blandly. 

It was after five when they reached the house. The 
maid who answered the door informed them that Mr. 
Drew was not in. Would they wait? He usually came 
home about this hour. 

“No time. Give him this,” Charley said to her. 

He took a card from his case, wrote Mr. Link’s name 
under his, and below it a line which read : 

Glad you are not worse. Hope you will be able 
to sit up in the morning. 

Leaving this for the maid to puzzle over, they drove 
back to the Rirebien. Mr. Teeters had just come in. 
He was elated, but tried to conceal it. His yachting 
suit was under way and would be a dandy. 

“Ha !” he greeted Mr. Link. “Going to kill a plate of 
soup with us?” 

“Want him to meet Crisp,” Charley answered for the 
boxer. “May do something.” 

Mr. Teeters uttered a cry. 

“Merry Moses ! I forgot all about that guy. Maybe 
- — gosh — maybe I’m out a hundred ! Let’s hurry up and 
eat while I got an appetite.” 

But Mr. Teeters was not out his hundred. They were 
smoking their after-dinner cigars in Charley’s sitting- 
room when Mr. Crisp was announced. 

“Shoot him up!” Mr. Teeters bawled down word to 
the office over fhe telephone. Then he hopped about the 
room in an agony of suspense until the visitor appeared. 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Did we win?” he squealed. “Say, now, you ain't 
come to tell me !” 

“It’s all right,” Mr. Crisp assured him. “Five to one.” 

“Hey?” The glad tidings were difficult of belief. “I 
made five hundred?” 

“That's what you did,” stated the other cheerfully. 
“Here!” He held out a newspaper turned to the sport- 
ing page. “It's all there. Sunshine. Romped home.” 

“Five hundred, and I didn’t put up a cent!” cackled 
Mr. Teeters. “Come-On, you stubbed your toe that 
time. I guess I'm not the little boy from Wiseville. 
Oh, no, I guess not!” 

“Gee, I was slow,” said Charley ruefully. He intro- 
duced Mr. Link. “Mr. Crisp, Mr. Green. Friend. Good 
sport. Hunting for a tip.” 

Mr. Crisp, who had been doubtfully, if covertly, sur- 
veying the ex-champion, extended a cordial hand. Mr. 
Link took care to clasp it lightly ; he did not wish to give 
the gentleman a too vigorous impression of himself. 

Mr. Teeters, who had listened agape to the introduc- 
tion, suppressed an inopportune comment. Second 
thought came to his rescue; moreover, he did not like 
the look Charley directed at him. And, lastly, he forgot 
about it the next moment in the joy of his winnings. 

“Play the ponies now and then, Mr. Green?” inquired 
the tipster pleasantly. 

“Not lately. Don’t know much about the game, but 
I’m willing,” proclaimed Mr. Link. He laughed good- 
naturedly. 

“Think I’ll take a shot,” Charley said. “Derby. Any- 
thing doing?” 

This was as Mr. Crisp would have it, what he had 
planned for and come for, in fact. But he smiled and 
raised a deprecating hand. 


MR. CRISP CALLS 


s n 

“Let me settle first with this little one from Wise- 
ville. ,, 

He drew a fistful of bills from his trousers-pocket 
and shucked off five one-hundred dollar notes from it. 
Mr. Teeters reached forth itching fingers for the money, 
but Charley interposed a question that delayed the 
transfer. 

“Come out pretty well yourself ?” 

Mr. Crisp rolled his comedy eye at him and replied: 

“Twenty-five thousand — that’s all. In the safe at my 
hotel. I don’t take any chances like Ben Goggins. Say, 

fellows ” he returned his wad to his pocket and 

gesticulated with Mr. Teeters’s sheaf of bills — “Ben has 
a card up his sleeve for to-morrow that I’m going to 
play wide open — my pile! He won’t tell me till the 
race is called, but he’ll have the dope right from the 
track. A cinch! The Big Ikes, you know;” 

“Does this go for me, too?” queried Mr. Link anx- 
iously. 

“Why, as a friend of Mr. Carter — yes, sure,” agreed 
Mr. Crisp. “But it don’t go any further, understand? 
Just us four. If you talk it around Ben’ll shut up like a 
clam. We’ll just drop around there to-morrow ” 

“Where?” broke in Mr. Link, who was leaning for- 
ward breathlessly. 

“I’ll take you,” said Mr. Crisp guardedly. “Quiet, 
you know, but they’ve got the cops fixed. I’ll come for 
you at two. They start then, but the big thing is in the 
third. We’ll get there in plenty of time for that.” 

“How about Almo?” asked Charley. “Saw his pic- 
ture. Looks good to me.” 

“Almo? Almo? Well, perhaps,” admitted Mr. Crisp, 
“but you leave it to Ben. He knows. I’ve got thirty 


828 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


thousand that goes down on his say. What do you boys 
think of doing?” He added this casually. 

“Gee,” said Charley. “Kind of risky. If I was 
sure ” 

“Sure!” put in Mr. Crisp impetuously now. “It’s a 
cinch, I tell you. Ben's on the inside, right next to the 
wall. You can’t lose! Look at to-day. He gave me 
Sunshine, and ” 

“What do you say, Joe? Fifty thousand? Twenty- 
five each?” Mr. Carter cut off Mr. Crisp’s impassioned 
discourse abruptly. 

“Suits me,” assented Mr. Link. “Hope we’ll get 
odds.” 

“Gollamighty !” exploded Mr. Teeters, who had never 
dreamed the middleweight was possessed of wealth to 
this degree. “Joe ” 

“Take your money!” Mr. Carter bade him sharply. 
“Keep out of this. Not your class.” He winked at Mr. 
Crisp. “Pikers barred.” 

“Why, say — let him in,” entreated the roguish-eyed 
gentleman. “I’ll put his five down with mine. Make it 
a thousand for him — perhaps more. You can’t tell.” 

“Come-On,” whined the secretary, “let me in on it.” 
He held out his hand to Mr. Crisp. “Gimme a hundred 
of that.” 

Mr. Crisp was nonplussed; but he reluctantly handed 
over the note and awaited developments. 

“Now,” said Mr. Teeters exultantly, “I can’t lose. Got 
my original stake. Go ahead and bet the rest.” 

Mr. Crisp cocked his eye at Mr. Carter and at Mr. 
Link. 

“Well — I’ll be jiggered!” he remarked. And then he 
joined in the laugh Mr. Carter raised. He had to. 

When he left Charley insisted on going down with 


MR. CRISP CALLS 


329 


him. They would have a good-luck drink together in 
the bar. They had it, and Charley went as far as the 
door with him — even out into the street a step where 
he bade him good-night and urged him not to be late on 
the morrow. He was positively loquacious, an amazing 
mood for Mr. Carter. 

Mr. Crisp went off feeling pleased with himself. A 
man lounging near the door, and another across the way, 
found business in the same direction. It was toward 
Forty-fifth Street, West. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


PLAYING THE PONIES 

Mr. Ben Goggins waved his hand at Mr. Crisp and his 
friends and went on talking with a pale, parrot-nosed 
man over in the corner. Nobody else paid any atten- 
tion to them. A lookout had let them in secretly at the 
front door, and another passed them into the poolroom. 

It was on the parlor floor, two big apartments opening 
into each other. Gas flared from the chandeliers, for 
the windows were closed tight, shades drawn and inside 
blinds latched over them. Mr. Link grunted as he noted 
this. 

“That’s Bitney, Ben’s spieling to,” Mr. Crisp enlight- 
ened them. “Runs the place. We’ll wait till Ben gets 
through. The second race is on.” 

Charley looked about him. Mr. Teeters twiddled his 
walking-stick and did the same. The sight was new to 
them. On a blackboard at one side the starters in the 
second event on the card were chalked up with the odds 
for and against first, second and third place. Opposite 
this board was the cashier, at a desk with a movable cage 
half encircling it. 

Farther on, in the next room, a telegraph instrument 
clicked, and the man was calling out the position of the 
horses as they ran — “In the stretch : White Cloud, Co- 
rinne, Jupiter, Belle B. closing up. Field bunched” — and 
330 


FLAYING THE PONIES 


331 


so on. A dozen men were feverishly hanging on the 
telegrapher's announcements. 

“Come on, you Corinne!” bellowed one. 

“Eat 'em up, you Jupiter!" howled another. 

“Oh, you White Cloud! Come home!" roared still 
another. 

“Belle! Belle! What fell! Chase 'em, girl!" yelled 
a fourth. 

They seemed to visualize that race eight hundred miles 
away and partake of its excitement. Mr. Teeters found 
himself imbued with it also. 

“Jumping Jingoes!" he breathed hoarsely. “You get 
action for your coin here, Come-On." 

“Lively," said Charley briefly. 

Mr. Goggins came over to them. He was serious and 
preoccupied. Mr. Carter introduced “Mr. Green." The 
red-faced man gave him a nod and a quick ocular meas- 
urement, and said to Mr. Crisp: 

“No checks. Bitney got stung on one the other day, 
and he’s through." 

Mr. Crisp laughed comfortably. 

“We are here with the real dust. Bitney can go 
bite his nose off. What's the layout, Ben, for the 
Derby?" 

Mr. Goggins's reply was evasive. 

“Early Boy is the favorite, two to one. They're quot- 
ing Kismet even, and the same with Dicky S." 

“Rats !" scoffed Mr. Crisp. “You ain’t saying nothing. 
What’s your bet, that’s what we want to know." 

“Well," returned Mr. Goggins, with deliberation, “I 
don't want to influence you boys none — it’s Delmont’s 
money I’m handling, not my own — but I got word to 
play Almo straight across the board." 


332 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“What?” Mr. Crisp’s surprise was overwhelming. 
He staggered under it. 

“By George!” exclaimed Charley, quite as much sur- 
prised. 

“Saints in heaven !” muttered Mr. Link. 

“But, Ben,” argued Mr. Crisp, “everybody says Early 
Boy ” 

“Everybody!” snorted Mr. Goggins. “What does 
everybody know about horse-racing? You asked me a 
question and I answered it. Almo straight across — ten, 
seven and three.” 

Mr. Crisp gasped and rolled his squint eye ludicrously. 

“Great guns, Charley! You had it all doped out last 
night, and here we’ve been waiting for it!” 

“Telegram for Mr. Goggins.” The lookout at the door 
spoke. He thrust the yellow envelope through an inch- 
wide crack, and Mr. Goggins reached out and took it. 
They were standing by the entrance. The betting com- 
missioner read the dispatch with evident satisfaction. 

“It’s from the stable,” he announced. “They’re bidding 
Almo up. It’s five, two and even now. Bitney’s got it, 
of course. His wire is straight from the track. Better 
hop aboard, boys, if you’re going to.” He walked off 
unceremoniously. 

“See that?” cried Mr. Crisp eagerly. “It’s a sure thing. 
Almo! And you picked him, Charley. Let’s go to it 
while we can. And say, I’m going to play that colt to 
win. Five to one is the tune. Come on !” 

Mr. Bitney himself was in the cage when they crossed 
to it. They were still paying off on the second race. 
Everybody seemed to have won, or so it looked to Char- 
ley. When their chance came Mr. Crisp pushed in a 
stack of bills. 


PLAYING THE PONIES 


333 

“Derby. Almo to win. Thirty thousand four hun- 
dred/’ he stated. 

Mr. Teeters wiggled his mustache in furious excite- 
ment. The odd four hundred was his. He stood to win 
two thousand. The ticket writer scratched off a card and 
shoved it over to Mr. Crisp. Charley hesitated at the 
wicket. 

“Well?” snapped Mr. Bitney. “Spit it out. They’s 
others waiting.” 

“Take a check?” asked Charley. 

“No! Ain’t taking paper.” 

Mr. Crisp was astounded. He knew the ready money 
was in Charley’s pocket. 

“Didn’t you hear what Ben said?” he whispered. 

“All right,” Charley apprised the poolroom manager. 
“Here’s fifty thousand. Almo. Want to see it covered, 
though. Betting running high. May break you.” 

Mr. Bitney’s parrot nose went up till his teeth showed. 

“Oh! You’re one of these wise ginks!” he sneered. 
“What’s your moniker, little man?” 

“Charley Carter.” 

“Write him a check, Aleck, and let him see it,” com- 
manded the boss. 

“Ain’t taking paper,” remarked Charley affably. 

They commenced crowding around him, the others in 
the room. Mr. Link placed his elbow in the stomach of 
one of them. 

“Get back !” he growled. 

The man gave a yelp and a curse in the same breath. 
Mr. Link’s elbow had steam behind it. 

“Here! Here!” cried out Ben Goggins, shoving his 
way to the front. “What’s the matter here? These are 
friends of mine.” 

Mr. Bitney explained the situation. 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


“Well, cover his money,” advised Mr. Goggins. “You 
don’t have to put up the odds. The race ain’t run yet. 
Cover it! Put it in the envelope with his own stuff and 
seal it. How does that suit you?” he asked Charley, 
when it was done. 

“Bully,” Charley answered. “Much obliged.” 

Mr. Goggins mumbled something and left him. Mr. 
Crisp followed. The telegraph operator called the race, 
and the crowd hustled over to him. Charley peeped at 
his watch. It was half-past three. His mouth twitched 
at the corners in a secret smile, and he moved away from 
the cage. Mr. Teeters was at his heels. Mr. Link re- 
mained at the cage. He was lighting a cigar and having 
trouble with it. It drew poorly. He threw it away and 
tried another but found he was out of matches. He 
asked Mr. Bitney for one, and engaged him in conver- 
sation about the fourth race. He had a little change he 
wanted to place right. What was the book offering on 
Alice and Tommy Kent? 

“They’re off!” heralded the telegraph operator. 

Charley spoke to Mr. Teeters out of the side of his 
mouth. 

“Something’s doing. Get over to the door. Slow. 
Roundabout. Knock the man on the head if he opens it.” 

<f Gollamighty, Come-On ! What ” 

“Go!” said Charley. 

Mr. Teeters began to circle the room in a daze. When 
Mr. Carter used^ that tone there was but one thing to 
do — go ! 

The Kentucky Derby course is a mile and a quarter. 
The barrier is at the three-quarter pole. Passing the 
stand the first time the man at the key informed the 
room that Kismet led, Early Boy was second and 
Dicky S. third. On the backstretch he announced that 


PLAYING THE PONIES 


335 


Early Boy had forged ahead, Dicky S. was closing up 
on Kismet, and the field was bunched. Almo was not 
mentioned. 

Charley looked around for Mr. Crisp. He was stand- 
ing with Mr. Goggins on the outskirts of the crowd at 
the telegraph board. They met his eye, and Mr. Crisp 
raised his hand in a signal of encouragement. A lot 
can happen in a race, and usually does, between the half 
and the finish. 

“Three-quarter,” chanted the operator. “Early Boy 
leads, Dicky S. pushing him, Dodo third.” 

Kismet, the second choice, was out of it. And Almo — 
he was not even in the running. Charley glanced at Mr. 
Link. The box-fighter was still talking to Mr. Bitney 
and the other man in the cage. Both appeared to be 
intensely annoyed by his persistency. Charley stepped 
quickly over to Mr. Crisp and Mr. Goggins. They stared 
at him; he was grinning pleasantly. Before they could 
speak the operator called out: 

“Finish! Early Boy by a head. Dicky S. and Dodo.” 

Charley clapped his hand to his mouth. There was a 
police whistle in it, and he gave a blast that set the echoes 
ringing. At the same instant, and with a lightning 
movement, he swung at Mr. Goggins’s jaw and landed 
like a sledge-hammer. 

“My regards, Ben !” he shouted gleefully, as that stout 
person staggered blindly against the wall. “Same to you, 
Clarence!” And he playfully put a hard fist in the lat- 
ter’s errant eye. 

He sprang back. The crowd was on him like a pack 
of wolves. He had a momentary glimpse of Mr. Link 
jamming the cage over and down on Mr. Bitney and the 
ticket writer. He heard a voice at the door scream out 
something. (“The bulls !” it said — just once — and Mr. 


336 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Teeters poked his stick in the open mouth.) Then all 
went black before him. Somebody had tapped him be- 
hind the ear with a knuckle-duster, though, fortunately, 
it was a glancing blow with a long reach. 

When Charley came to he was propped up in a chair. 
Joe Link was massaging his head with skilled fingers, 
and Mr. Teeters was dancing about him wildly. The 
room was full of bluecoats. They had come down 
through the scuttle in the roof, having seen to the fasten- 
ings the night before. They had, in fact, been in hiding 
on the fourth floor of the empty house since early morn- 
ing. 

It was the old Gondorf gang the police had captured, 
thanks to Charley. The sharpers had staged the pool- 
room scene especially for his benefit. The “wire from 
the track” was but forty feet long. It began in a small 
room back of the parlors, and the man who pounded 
the key there didn’t know the Morse code from a runic 
rhyme. The other operator did the rest. He had imagi- 
nation. 

“By crackey, Come-On, I thought you was going to 
cash in!” croaked Mr. Teeters, as Charley opened his 
eyes. 

Mr. Carter blinked and straightened up. 

“Maybe I will,” he said. “When they run the Derby.” 

He looked across the room at Mr. Goggins, Mr. Crisp ' 
and the others, ranged stiffly against the wall. He 
grinned as he scanned them. 

“The Derby? It’s over!” squeaked the secretary. 

Charley took out his watch. It was a quarter of four. 
Considerable had taken place in fifteen minutes. 

“Guess not,” he answered. “Louisville an hour behind 
us. Central time. Two forty-five over there. Forgot 
that, Clarence — what?” 


PLAYING THE PONIES 


337 


Mr. Crisp, for reply, rid himself of an oath that was 
choking him. 

“Ha! Then I ain’t lost yet!” chirruped Mr. Teeters, 
who was just arriving at the real crux of the affair. 

Maloney, the lieutenant from the Forty-seventh Street 
Station, laughed. 

“Joe Link there has the bank-roll. Maybe there’ll be 
something coming to you when we hear from the race. 
Are you able to travel, Mr. Carter? The wagon’s wait- 
ing for those birds, and we’ll be getting on ourselves if 
you can face the walk. Only three blocks.” 

Charley stood up. He was a little dizzy, but it was 
passing rapidly. 

“Sure I’m able/’ he affirmed. “Fit as a fiddle.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


CHARLEY GETS HIS MILLION 

In the fear of being charged with plain romancing we 
must nevertheless chronicle the facts. Almo won the 
Derby. No one expected him to do it, not even Mr. 
Grant, with whom he was a favorite; but the knowing 
ones looked for him to show. The price against him in 
the future books was seven to one, but he started at 
four to one, owing to the backing. It being a matter 
of indifference to Mr. Goggins which horse won he 
had humorously fallen in with Charley’s choice, as ex- 
pressed to Mr. Crisp, and played the gray colt. 

Now see what really happened at the track. Early 
Boy went suddenly lame as they were weighing him in, 
and was scratched at the last moment. Kismet stumbled 
and fell in the homestretch. Dicky S., who was right 
upon him, pressed hard by Almo, swerved wildly, unseat- 
ing his rider, and the gray came under the wire in a can- 
ter. You have simply to turn to the files of the Evening 
Scream to verify this singular concatenation of curious 
casualties that May day on Churchill Downs in the sov- 
ereign State of Kentucky. 

Lamentable to relate, however, the Gondorf bank-roll 
summed up only sixty thousand dollars, and Mr. Carter’s 
odds went glimmering. But he was content. He had 
risked his fifty thousand and had reaped a satisfying 
reward. Indeed, he refused the surplus ten thousand. 
338 


CHARLEY GETS HIS MILLION 


339 


He made Mr. Link take two, though the boxer fought it, 
and turned the balance into the Police Pension Fund. 
In turn the beatified police arranged to delay his appear- 
ance in court against the gang until he should return 
from his trip to Bermuda. 

Out of his own pocket Charley paid Mr. Teeters -on 
the spot — which was the station-house — the mythical bet 
he had won, and with the odds. It was a joke worth 
the money. To Mr. Teeters it was a miracle. He had 
reached up, so to speak, and plucked seventeen hundred 
real dollars out of the ambient air. He felt so good over 
it that he sought out Mr. Crisp in his cell and handed 
him back the “original stake” ; and Mr. Crisp, by way of 
thanks, cursed him for the blink blinkitest furry fool in 
the forty-eight States and Territories. 

Mr. Teeters, too astonished for reply, left the ingrate 
and, as it was growing late, slipped quietly off downtown 
to a rendezvous with Mr. Ball at the outfitter’s. From 
this place he telephoned Charley to the Rirebien, saying 
he would meet him on the yacht. 

Charley and Miss Dorothy Grant were again in com- 
pany at the taffrail of the Kelpie. The lights on Riverside 
Drive were twinkling at them, and the stars in their 
courses were winking at them — as stars have done at 
lovers’ trysts since the world began. Charley had told 
his story to the others in the saloon, and Mr. Grant had 
laughed himself ill at it. They had stolen away now 
and were talking it over. 

“Does your head hurt you?” Dorothy asked with de- 
licious solicitude. 

“Don’t know I’ve got one,” Charley answered. “Made 
of wood. Ax to split it.” 

“No such thing!” Dorothy was indignant. “It was 


340 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


frightfully clever, what you did. Clever — clever !” She 
iterated the words with supreme conviction. 

“Luck,” maintained Charley stoutly. “If I hadn’t 
talked with Maloney ” 

“That’s just it,” declared the girl. “You thought of 
that. Lots of people wouldn’t have. Now if you could 
only see Mr. Drew!” 

Charley grinned. 

“Phoned him. Office. House. Club. No use. So I 
wired.” 

“Oh! That, too, was clever!” pronounced Dorothy, 
who, it seemed, regarded the young man in the light of a 
prodigy. “What did you wire?” 

Charley chuckled as he told her. 

“ ‘Got my million/ All I said.” 

A boat that had put out from the Yacht Club was 
making fast to the gangway ladder. They went for- 
ward, for they were expecting Mr. Teeters. They were 
not disappointed. It was he. Mr. Ball was with him. 
As they came up over the side Mr. Ball sang out: 

“Telegram for you, Charley. Met the boy at the 
landing. And say, Miss Grant, what do you think of 
Merciful here? Rather classy, I call him. He’s got 
Charley faded to a lonesome landlubber.” 

Mr. Teeters, proudly conscious, threw back his light 
overcoat and revealed himself in the glare of the deck 
lamps. He saluted the girl — two fingers to his chin, as 
Mr. Ball had coached him. A curious smothered noise 
arose from the small boat below. The boatswain at the 
gangway deserted his post of a sudden. The engineer, 
who was loafing near, dove into his quarters hurriedly. 
Charley looked his secretary over solemnly. Dorothy 
gave a strangled gasp. 

“Why, Mr. Teeters — you — you are perfectly stun- 


CHARLEY GETS HIS MILLION 


341 


ning !” she murmured and reached for the rail to support 
herself. 

“Ha!” piped Mr. Teeters, and wiggled his mustache 
triumphantly at Charley. 

“Didn’t I tell you, Skeeters !” exclaimed Mr. Ball. 
“Come along with me. Seventeen guns they ought to 
give you if they were on to their job on this barge. But 
maybe Mr. Grant will make it highballs. Take off your 
coat and come on.” 

He led the secretary aft. The sound of girlish voices, 
mingled with men’s deeper tones, floated out from the 
saloon. Presently this was hushed. A deep silence 
reigned. 

“I can’t stand it!” babbled Dorothy. “It — it’s too 
ridiculous! Too — too ” 

She broke off and ran forward, up into the very 
bow. The watch drew back to the foremast. He was 
thoroughly yacht-broken. Dorothy leaned her head 
against an awning stanchion and cried with laughter. 
Charley joined in. 

“It’s Teddy Ball,” he said when they had caught their 
breath. 

“Of course! And he is showing off his handiwork.” 
Then, suddenly remembering— “The telegram! Per- 
haps ” 

Charley, who had quite forgotten the message, tore it 
open. It was too dark to read it where they stood, so 
he struck a blazer. Dorothy peered over his shoulder; 
she guessed whom it was from. It ran : 

“That’s all you have got. Letter to Hamilton, Ber- 
muda. — S. Drew.” 

“Oh, you poor boy!” condoled Dorothy. “It was a 
hoax, after all.” 


342 


COME-ON CHARLEY 


Charley grinned widely. 

“Guessed it all along. But I’ve got my million. Owe 
that much to him. Good old sport.” 

The pendulum of Miss Dorothy’s coquetry which on 
Wednesday had swung to one extremity of its arc now 
swung clear over to the opposite extreme. Her hand 
fluttered up to Charley’s shoulder and rested there, and 
she leaned forward — she was standing just behind him— 
till the golden web of her hair brushed his cheek. The 
match had gone out, and it seemed darker to her than it 
really was. The trained sailorman by the foremast 
looked the other way; for he could see through murk 
and mist when need was. 

“Charley!” whispered the girl. “Charley! You’re a 
dear. There is not a mean bone in you; and — if you 
turn your face just a little ” 

It was force of habit, no doubt, for he was trembling 
and his heart was walloping his ribs, but 

“Sure,” said Charley. 


THE END 


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London, England. 

“To those who wish to earn some of the money which the moving picture 
folk disburse, Eustace Hale BaB proffers expert and valuable advice. ” 

Ndw York Times Rxvuew or Books. 

“ Bail's Art of the Photoplay puts into concrete form, with expert simplicity, 
the secrets of writing photoplays which appeal to the million* of Americans 
who attend the theatres and the producer* can not buy enough of such play* to 
satisfy the exhibitors.” (Signed) Robert Lu Macnabb, 

National Vice-President, Motion Picture 

Exhibitor’s League of America. 

“You hare suooeeded in producing a dear and helpful exposition of the sub- 
ject.” (Signed) Wk R. Ka«, 

Editor of “The Editor Magazine.” 

12 mo. Cloth bound, $1.00 NeL 

G. W. DILLINGHAM CO., Publisher* NEW YORK 




Books by Edward Marshall 


BAT — An Idyl of New York 

“The heroine has all the charm of Thackeray’s Mardronesw in 
New York surroundings.” — New York Sun. “ It would be hard to 
find a more charming, cheerful story.” — New York Times. “Alto- 
gether delightful.” — Buffalo Express. “The comedy is delicious.” 
— Sacramento Union. “ It is as wholesome and fresh as the breath 
of springtime.” — N ew Orleans Picayune. i2mo, cloth. Illustrated. 
$1.00 net. 

THE MIDDLE WALL 

The Albany Times-Union says of this story of the South African 
diamond mines and adventures in London, on the sea and in 
America: “As a story teller Mr. Marshall cannot be improved 
upon, and whether one is looking for humor, philosophy, pathos, 
wit, excitement, adventure or love, he will find what he seeks, 
aplenty, in this capital tale.” i2mo, cloth. Illustrated. 50 cents. 

BOOKS NOVELIZED FROM GREAT PLAYS 

THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE 

From the successful play of EDGAR JAMES. Embodying a won- 
derful message to both husbands and wives, it tells how a deter- 
mined man, of dominating personality and iron will, leaves a faithful 
wife for another woman. i2mo, cloth. Illustrated from scenes in 
the play. Net $1.25. 

THE WRITING ON THE WALL 

The Rocky Mountain News : “ This novelization of OLGA NETHER- 
SOLE’S play tells of Trinity Church and its tenements. It is a 
powerful, vital novel.” i2mo, cloth. Illustrated. 50 cents. 

THE OLD FLUTE PLAYER 

Based on CHARLES T. DAZEY’S play, this story won the 
friendship of the country very quickly. The Albany Times-Unic^: 
“ Charming enough to become a classic.” 1 2mo, cloth. Illustrated. 
50 cents. 

THE FAMILY 

Of this book (founded on the play by ROBERT HOBART DAVIS), 
The Portland ( Oregon ) Journal said: “Nothing more powerful has 
recently been put between the covers of a book.” i2mo, cloth. 
Illustrated. 50 cents. 

THE SPENDTHRIFT 

The Logans port ( Ind .) Journal : “A tense story, founded on PORTER, 
EMERSON BROWNE’S play, is full of tremendous situations,” 
and preaches a great sermon.” i2mo, cloth bound, with six illus- 
trations from scenes in the play. 50 cents. 

m OLD KENTUCKY 

Based upon CHARLES T. DAZEY’S well-known play, which has 
been listened to with thrilling interest by over seven million people. 
“A new and powerful novel, fascinating in its rapid action. Its 
touching story is told more elaborately and even more absorbingly 
than it was upon the stage.” — Nashville American . i2mo, doth 
Illustrated. 50 cents. 


Nine Splendid Novels by 

WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE 

THE PIRATE OF PANAMA 

A tale of old-time pirates and of modem love, hate and adventure. The 
scene is laid in San Francisco on board The Argus and in Panama. A ro- 
mantic search for the lost pirate gold. An absorbing love-story runs through 
the book. 

i2mo, Cloth, Jacket in Colors. Net $1.25. 

THE VISION SPLENDID 

A powerful story in which a man of big ideas and fine ideals wars against 
graft and corruption. A most satisfactory love affair terminates the story. 

i2mo, Cloth, Illustrated. Net $ 1.25 . 

CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT 

A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter feud 
between cattle-men and sheep-herders. The heroine is a most unusual woman 
and her love-story reaches a culmination that is fittingly characteristic of the 
great free West. 

i2mo, Cloth, Illustrated. Popular Edition 50 cents. 

BRAND BLOTTERS 

A story of the Cattle Range. This stoty brings out the turbid life of the 
frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor with a charming love interest 
running through its 320 pages. 

i2mo, Cloth, Illustrated. Jacket in Colors. Popular Edition 50 cents. 

“MAVERICKS” 

A tale of the western frontier, where the “rustler,” whose depredations are 
so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. One of the 
sweetest love stories ever told. 

i2tno, Cloth, Illustrated. Popular Edition, 50 cents . 

A TEXAS RANGER 

How a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law into 
the mesquit, saved the life of an innocent man after a series of thrilling adven- 
tures, followed a fugitive to Wyoming, and then passed through deadly peril 
to ultimate happiness. 

i2tno, Cloth, Illustrated. Popular Edition, 50 cents. 

WYOMING 

In this vivid story of the outdoor West the author has captured the breezy 
charm of “cattleland,” and brings out the turbid life of the frontier with all 
its engaging dash and vigor. 

121710, Cloth, Illustrated. Popular Edition, 50 cents. 

RIDGWAY OF MONTANA 

The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics and mining 
industries are the religion of the country. The political contest, the love 
scene, and the fine character drawing give this story great strength and charm. 

i2tno , Cloth, Illustrated. Popular Edition , 50 cents. 

BUCKY O’CONNOR 

Every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with the 
dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbing fascina- 
tion of style and plot. 

1 2 mo, Cloth, Illustrated. Popular Edition, 50 cents, . 


THREE SPLENDID BOOKS BY 

ALFRED HENRY LEWIS 


FARO NELL AND HER FRIENDS 

A new story of “ Wolfville ,, days — the best of all. It 
pictures the fine comradeship, broad understanding and 
simple loyalty of Faro Nell to her friends. Here we meet 
again Old Monte, Dave Tutt, Cynthiana, Pet-Named 
Original Sin, Dead Shot Baker, Doc Peets, Old Man En- 
right, Dan Boggs, Texas and Black Jack, the rough-ac- 
tioned, good-hearted men and women who helped to 
make this author famous as a teller of tales of Western 
frontier life. 

12 mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Popular Edition. SO Cents 

THE APACHES OF NEW YORK 

A truthful account of actual happenings in the under- 
world of vice and crime in the metropolis, that gives an 
appalling insight into the life of the New York criminal. 
It contains intimate, inside information concerning the 
gang fights and the gang tyranny that has since startled 
the entire world. The book embraces twelve stories of 
grim, dark facts secured directly from the lips of the 
police and the gangsters themselves. 

12 mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Popular Edition . SO Cents 

THE STORY OF PAUL JONES 

A wonderful historical romance. A story of the boy- 
hood and later life of that daring and intrepid sailor 
whose remains are now in America. Thousands and tens 
of thousands have read it and admired it. Many con- 
sider it one of the best books Mr. Lewis has produced. 

12mo. Cloth . Illustrated. Popular Edition. SO Cents 


G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 


Publishers 


New York 


By ARTHUR HORNBLOW 


The Talker Just Issued 

An impeachment of the attitude of many women with regard to Hkm 
•acredness of the marriage tie— From the play of 
MARION FAIRFAX. 

A poignantly affecting story, deeply arresting in its significance. 

Kmdimg 4th Large Edition 

A story of mother-lore in the tenements — From the Play of 

CHARLES KENYON. 

**A dramatic and interesting story from the powerful and unusual play .’* — Buffalo Express. 

Bought and Paid For 5th Large Edition 

A tremendous arraignment of the mercenary marriage — From ‘the play of 
GEORGE BROADHURST. 

“The story is intensely human in its serious side and delightfully amusing in its lighter 
phases.” — Boston Globe. 


The Gamblers 85th Thousand 

A dramatic story of American life, from the wonderful play of Charles Klein* 
"A powerful indictment of the methods of modem finance.” — Philadelphia Press. 


The Easiest Way 6th Large Edition 

A vivid story of metropolitan life from Eugene Walter’s thrilling play. 
“The easiest way is in reality the hardest way.” — Boston Times 

John Marsh’s Millions 6th Large Edition 

The struggle of a young girl, heiress to millions. 

*‘Has many thrilling dramatic situations.” — St. Louis Post-Dispatch. 

The Third Degree 70th Thousand 

A brilliant novelization of Charles Klein’s great play. 

"A strongly-painted picture of certain concfitioas in the administration of law and 
justice.” — Philadelphia Record. 

By Right of Conquest 100th Thousand 

A thrilling story of shipwreck upon a deserted island. 

*'A sensational situation handled with delicacy and vigor.” — Boston Transcript. 


The End of the Game 75th Thousand 

A love story dealing with the perils of great wealth. 

*'A thoroughly wholesome book, with action in the drama and real human interest** 

— Literary Digest. 


The Profligate 60th Thouaand 

A thrilling story of love, mystery and adventure. 

“The moral tone of the story is excellent.” — Baltimore Sun. 


The Lion and the Mouse 200 th Thousand 

A brilliant novelization of Charles Klein’s wonderful play. 

“As fascinating as Mr. Klein s play,” — Boston Transcript 


6y 

Mrs. George Sheldon Downs 


Katherine’s Sheaves 

A Great Novel With & Great Purpose. 

Katherine’s Sheaves is altogether delightful, a charming piece ef 
fiction, a beautiful romance. One must admire the book for its charao* 
terization, its brilliant pictures of life, and its dramatic situations, but 
Still more for its philosophy and wisdom. 

The story is a dramatic one, abounding in strong situations. 

The plot is well conceived and carried out, the style easy and thf 
characters likable. 

i2mo, Cloth, Illustrated. Popular Edition , 50 cents . 

Step by Step 

Judged as a story pure and simple, “STEP BY STEP” is altogether 
delightful. But it is not merely a charming piece of fiction. Ethical in 
its nature, the underlying thought shows throughout the lofty purpose 
and high ideals of the author, and exhales a wholesome atmosphere, while 
the element of romance pervading it is both elevated and enriched by it> 
purity and simplicity. 

i2mo, Cloth, Illustrated. Popular Edition , 50 cents . 

Gertrude Elliot’s Crucible 

It is a readable story, clean, wholesome, and high in moral tone — 
optimistic and constructive. 

It has an alluring plot, and is well and skillfully worked out. The 
incidents are dramatic, and therefore always striking, and the entire 
romance will hold the attention of the reader. 

l2mo. Cloth Bound, Illustrated . Popular Edition , 50 cents. 

Redeemed 

Dealing with divorce — the most vital problem in the world to-day 
— this book tells how a pure-minded woman is divorced from her hus- 
band, upon a flimsy pretext, because he wishes to marry again. How 
be suffers when he learns that he has thrown away the true disinterested 
tore of a noble woman, and how he craves that love again, makes a 
vivid, forceful story of an intensely modern significance. 

ijmo, Cloth, Illus^ated, Popular Edition , 50 cents. 


THE SELECT NOVELS 

OF 

MARION HARLAND 


ALONE. 

HIDDEN PATH. 
MOSS SIDE. 
NEMESIS. 

MIRIAM. 

SUNNY BANK. 
RUBY’S HUSBAND. 
AT LAST. 


MY LITTLE LOVE. 
PHEMIE’S TEMPTATION. 
THE EMPTY HEART. 
FROM MY YOUTH UP. 
HELEN GARDNER. 
HUSBANDS AND HOMES. 
JESSAMINE. 

TRUE AS STEEL. 


“The Novels of Marion Harland are of surpassing ex- 
cellence. By intrinsic power of character -drawing aud 
descriptive facility, they hold the reader’s attention with the 
most intense interest and fascination.” 


All published uniform, cloth bound. Price , S0 
cents each, and sent FREE by mail, 
on receipt of price by 


G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY, Publishers 

NEW YORK 


THE FASCINATING NOVELS 


OF 

Celia E. Gardner 


BROKEN DREAMS (In verse) 
COMPENSATION (In verse). 
HER LAST LOVER. 
RICHMEDWAY’S TWO 
LOVES. 

STOLEN WATERS (In verse). 


TESTED. 

TERRACE ROSES. 
TWISTED SKEIN (In 
verse). 

A WOMAN’S WILES. 
WON UNDER PROTEST 


These stories are as far removed from the sensational as 
posable, yet in matter as well as style, they possess a fascin- 
ation all their own. The author makes a specialty of the 
study of a woman’s heart. Their tone and atmosphere are 
high; the characterizations good; the dialogue bright and 
natural. Her books have had an enormous sale. 


12 mo. Cloth hound. Price , SO cents 
each, and sent FRBB by mall, on 
receipt of price by 


G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



THE POPULAR NOVELS 

OF 

MAY AGNES FLEMING 


THE ACTRESS’ 
DAUGHTER. 

A CHANGED HEART. 
EDITH PERCIVAL. 

A FATEFUL ABDUC- 
TION. 

MAUDE PERCY’S 
SECRET. 

THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN. 


NORINE’S REVENGE. 
PRIDE AND PASSION. 
QUEEN OF THE ISLE. 
SHARING HER CRIME. 
THE SISTERS OF 
TORWOOD. 

WEDDED FOR PIQUE. 
A WIFE’S TRAGEDY. 

A WRONGED WIFE. 


Mrs. Fleming’s stories have always been extremely popular. 
Their delineations of character, lifelife conversations, the 
flashes of wit, their constantly varying scenes and deeply 
interesting plots combine to place their author in an enviable 
position, which is still maintained despite the tremendous 
onrush of modem novelists. No more brilliant or stirring 
novels than hers have ever been published, and, strange as it 
may seem, the seeker after romance today reads these books 
as eagerly as did our mothers when they first appeared. 


All published uniform, cloth bound. Price, 50 
cents each, and sent FREE by mall, 
on receipt of price by 

G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 


Popular Mystery 
Detective Stories 
^Fergus Hume 



HE very name of Fergus Hume 
means mystery and excitement, 
and his detective stories show 
that he is a past-master in the 
art of creating thrills and un- 
usual situations, of baffling and elusive in- 
tricacy. Lovers of mystery stories welcome 
each announcement of a new book by this 
author, who is widely known on both sides 
of the Atlantic. 


Claude Duval of ’95 
Coin of Edward VII, A 
Disappearing Eye, The 
Green Mummy, The 
Lost Parchment, The 
Mandarin’s Fan, The 
Mystery of a Hansom 
Cab, The 

Mystery Queen, The 
Opal Serpent, The 
Pagan’s Cup, The 


Peacock of Jewels, The 
Rainbow Feather, The 
Red Money 
Red Window, The 
Sacred Herb, The 
Sealed Message, The 
Secret Passage, The 
Solitary Farm, The 
Steel Crown, The 
Yellow Holly, The 


12mo,Cloth; Popular Edition ; Per volume, 60 cents 













































































































































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